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HENDRIK CONSCIENCE. 



BALTIMORE: 

MURPHY & CO., 182 BALTIMORE STREET. 
PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1856. 






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frtta to tk Jirattksn Litton. 


The “Miser,” “ Ricketicketack,” and “The Poor Gentle- 
man,” are presented to the reader in this volume, the latter 
for the first time in our language. 

It would not be fair to say that “ The Miser” reminds 
us of “ The Crock of Gold,” for its incidents are altogether 
different; yet we may remark that the absorbing interest 
with which we perused Mr. Tupper’s startling work was en- 
tirely revived as we read the thrilling narrative of M. Con- 
science. Painful and tragic as are many of the facts, they 
form only a dark and stormy background to relieve the 
gentler or more winning traits of human nature ; so that 
the whole performance produces the effect of a delicious 
music, in which the sweetness of a soprano is made more 
eloquent by the harmonious depth and power of a bass. 
We know few stories in which avarice, with its debasing 
tendencies and destructive results, is displayed in a more 
masterly manner. 

“ Ricketicketack” will be read at a single sitting ; for 
no one who begins the story will lay down the book till he 
has finished the last line. It is a delicious summer-evening 

iii 


IV 


PREFACE. 


dream, imbued with all the rich tints of sunset over a quiet 
landscape. Indeed, it reminds us of one of those beautiful 
but rare pictures by the Flemish school in which it might 
be supposed that Cuyp furnished the scenery, while Te- 
niers, in his happiest mood, contributed the figures. Un- 
like many of M. Conscience’s stories, it deals with the 
delicate emotions of the manly heart; and, at the same 
time that it portrays the sufferings of a friendless girl, it 
paints the fervor with which the love of his lost child 
haunts, stimulates, and sustains a father through all the 
trials of a soldier’s life. 

The Parisian critics of “The Poor Gentleman’ 7 (at 
the head of whom, in admiration, is Pontmartin) have 
declared it to be, in its peculiar line, the most striking of 
M. Conscience’s stories. The struggles of human pride 
and human goodness, of ancestral vanity combined with 
gentle worth in a man, and of innocence and suddenly- 
aroused resolution in a woman, are delineated with a 
pathos, humor, minuteness, and elaborate finish which 
ought to place this work among the select favorites on 
every reading-table in our country. “The Poor Gentle- 
man” is a story which we can readily imagine would 
have delighted the heart of Hogarth ; and we must lament 
that there is no inheritor of the Englishman’s genius to 
illustrate it with that entire sympathy which ought always 
to exist between an author and his artist. 


Baltimore, Oct. 1856. 


THE MISER. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was winter. The snow covered the whole 
face of nature, like the pall upon a maiden’s 
bier; moors and fields lay in deep repose; every 
thing slept, but in a slumber so peaceful, so full 
of promise for a joyous awakening, that the 
scene, monotonous and lifeless as it was, made 
the heart heat high with instinctive gladness. 

And what wonder ? Above, in the clear blue 
vault, brightly shone the winter’s sun, showering 
down his beams upon that stilly world ; from 
the endless expanse each flake flashed back the 
rays, so that the whole showed as bestrewn with 
thousands of sparkling gems; and so joyously 
glistened the brightness that resulted from this 
reflection, that it was as if the snow had been 
informed with life and colors of its own. 

Far and near the whiteness was unbroken — 
for church, village, and farm were hidden, as it 
were, under the folds of earth’s wintry robe ; un- 
broken but by the sombre foliage of the fir-trees, 
1 * & 


6 


THE MISEK. 


which reared their dark green pyramids from 
amid the snow, and stood motionless there, like 
so many sentinels keeping guard over a sleeping 
army. 

But if the world of nature had thus enveloped 
itself- in silence and repose, the world of man 
toiled on with unremitting diligence. From 
every farm, from every cottage, came forth noises 
and voices in endless variety. Here the thresh- 
ing-floor' resounded heavily to the flail, there the 
corn-mill pursued its impatient clatter; farther 
on might be heard the sharp, rapid blows of the 
flax-crusher or the dull plash of the churn. 

And above all these the pleasant song of the 
maidens and sharp whistle of the men, and then 
the neighing of the horses, the lowing of the 
cows, the sweet and plaintive bleat of the sheep. 

Oh, ineffable song of praise, which ascends to 
God, and tells him that his creatures rejoice in 
their labors and thank him for their lot upon 
earth ! 

Nevertheless, one house there was which, amid 
this Babel of varied sounds, remained dull and 
silent as the grave. It stood some few hundreds 
of yards apart from the body of the village, and 
was evidently the remnant of a convent or monas- 
tery, of which the greater portion had been de- 
stroyed by fire or the hand of man ; for the broken 
foundations of massive buildings might still be 
traced in the ground all round about. 

This habitation consisted simply of one wing 


THE MISER. 


7 


of the old buildings which had been left standing, 
with its Gothic windows rudely bricked up with 
fragments from the ruins. House and garden 
were entirely enclosed within high walls, sup- 
ported by projecting buttresses. 

But it was not all this that made the passer- 
by stay his steps beside this singular house and 
led him off into a melancholy train of thought. 

There lay over this mysterious * abode — pitiful 
remnant of antique prosperity and power — a tone 
of decay and desolation which pained the be- 
holder to the very heart. All about it the ground 
seemed given up to waste. Great heaps of rub- 
bish and yawning vaults rendered it almost inac- 
cessible. Time and weather had sorely worn 
the walls, which were here and there traversed by 
long fissures ; the buttresses were in many places 
partial]} 7 broken away; some of them even lay 
prostrate on the ground at the foot of the wall 
which they should have supported. Howhere 
could be observed a trace of any attempt at 
reparation or maintenance. 

From the stillness which reigned here, one 
should have judged this house wholly uninhabited, 
had it not been for a beaten track through the 
snow which led from the door in the direction 
of the village till it was lost in a broader path- 
way. With closer observation, the smaller prints 
of a woman’s foot might be distinguished from 
among the larger impressions. 

Within, under a projecting mantel-piece, in total 


8 


THE MISER. 


silence, their feet on the hearth, their heads sunk 
between their shoulders, as though chilled into 
insensibility by the cold, sat two persons over 
against one another. The one was an old man 
with gray hairs, sunken eyes, and pale hollow 
cheeks, his back bowed with years, his hands, 
whenever he moved them, tremulous with feeble- 
ness. The other was a man of some forty years 
of age, still in the full vigor of life, whose 
irregular features bore upon them a strange and 
inexplicable expression, which at the first sight 
could hardly fail to inspire distrust or aversion. 
His little gray eyes were buried as it were beneath 
a high forehead and heavy overhanging brows, 
and glqamed out from their recesses like glow- 
worms in a dark night; his spreading nostrils 
vibrated with each breath he drew; his mouth 
was wide, cleft almost to the middle of the cheek ; 
and the unpleasant smile that played upon his 
thick lips told of gluttony and vices more odious 
still. His countenance thus bore upon its upper 
half the expression of unprincipled cunning, not 
without somewhat of acute intelligence too; in 
its lower half, that of blind animal appetite ; and 
the result of the combination produced a whole 
sufficiently ill-favored in its material forms, but 
doubly so by its moral significance. 

The room in which they sat, and every thing 
about them, accurately harmonized with the 
aspect and temper of the two silent figures. It 
was a vaulted chamber, spacious and lofty, but 


THE MISER. 


9 


hardly more than half lighted by a window high 
up in the wall and closely barred with iron, 
which, in default of glass, gave freest ingress to 
wind and rain. An excessive want of cleanliness 
reigned throughout. The floor was covered with 
a layer of earth ; cobwebs hung down from the 
ceiling and thickly festooned the walls; in the 
dark corners lay cast-away objects of the most 
heterogeneous description, without a use, and 
almost without a form, among which worn-out 
shoes prominently figured ; while the few articles 
of household use which here and there hung 
against the walls, or stood ranged upon the 
chimney-piece, were all so thickly covered with 
dust that it was plain enough they had not for 
years and years been moved from their places. 

Both the men, closely muffled up as they 
were in garments miserably patched indeed, but 
of the thickest and heaviest materials, seemed 
pierced with cold to the very marrow; and a 
strange spectacle it was to see them stretching 
out their feet to the solitary peat-sod which lay 
smouldering on the hearth, at the same time 
bending over it, so that no ray of caloric should 
escape them on its way up the chimney, and 
even intercepting with outspread hands the 
scanty steam which issued from an earthen 
pipkin placed in the ashes beside this apology 
for a fire. 

The old man sat motionless, his eyes fixed upon 
the hearth; his companion, though he too but 


10 


THE MISER. 


rarely changed his position, yet sufficiently in- 
dicated by the frequent blinking of his cunning 
eyes that he was deeply occupied in thought 
upon matters of the utmost interest to him. It 
was as though he was impatiently awaiting the 
old man’s rousing up, meanwhile anxiously 
spying out the slightest indication of emotion 
upon the fleshless and lifeless countenance. At 
last he took up the iron blowpipe and directed a 
vigorous blast upon the peat-sod, so that a blue 
flame rose up from the hearth. 

With feverish haste the old man caught his 
hand. “ What are you about, Thys ^Matthias] ? 
he exclaimed, in a tremulous voice ; “ take care ! 
isn’t the peat soon enough gone, that you must 
blow it to pieces ? Are you cold, then ?” 

“Hot at all,” answered Thys; “but it’s striking 
eight by the church clock, so it’s time for us to 
get our breakfast.” 

“Well, what then ?” 

“Well, I thought a good sup of something 
warm would do you good, Uncle Jan.” 

“Warm food weakens the stomach,” mur- 
mured the old man; “and the peat, too, is so 
terribly dear!” 

Meanwhile Thys had set the pipkin on the 
table, and put a spoon into his companion’s 
hand, who kept stirring and blowing as though 
sorely afraid of burning his mouth. To judge 
by the eager smile of appetite with which he in- 
haled the steam, the pottage seemed much to 


THE MISER. 


11 


his mind ; yet, in good truth, the appearance of 
it was any thing but inviting, it being, in fact, 
neither more nor less than a mess of warm water 
with great bits of black bread swimming about 
in it. 

But at the first spoonful which the old man 
put to his lips he cast a look of reproach on his 
companion. 

“Thys, Thys!” he exclaimed, “I cannot think 
how it is you are so desperately fond of salt !” 

“ Only five grains, Uncle Jan !” 

“And what’s that I see? — grease? You’ve 
been putting butter to it ! So you are determined 
to bring me to the workhouse in my old days? 
Thys, Thys! that was not well done of you !” 

“You’re blaming me 'quite without cause,” 
answered Thys; “Cecilia used the pipkin yester- 
day to warm up her potatoes in, and put a great 
piece of butter to them.” 

“A great piece of butter!” 

“ I could have washed and wiped out the pot, 
to-be-sure.” 

“No, no ! that would never have done !” 

“ And I took good care not to do so ; now we 
have some good of it too, instead of its being 
thrown away.” 

“ I was wrong, Thys ; you’re an excellent 
fellow, and, if I leave a trifle behind me when I 
; come to die, be sure you shall see that I’ve not for- 
gotten you for your care and attachment to me.” 

At this moment a gentle knocking was heard 


12 


THE MISER. 


at the door, followed by a paternoster distinctly 
repeated, though in a faint and tremulous voice. 

“ There’s Jan the mason’s widow again,” mut- 
terered Thys, with a gesture of annoyance ; “ she’s 
never got any thing yet, and every day she keeps 
on coming. I wonder what she means by it. It’s 
just as though she was hired to worry us.” 

“What ! again ?” exclaimed the old man ; “give, 
give ! always the same story ! Just get up, Thys, 
and pack the idle hussy away.” 

How the door was gently opened, and a poor 
woman, thin and faded, leading by the hand a 
little shivering girl, stood upon the threshold. 
She went on with her prayer ; else she spoke not. 

Thys meanwhile had risen from his seat, and, 
roughly and rudely addressing himself to the 
woman, — 

“Off with you!” he cried; “there’s nothing 
given away here. I should like to know what 
you’re always sneaking about this house for ? to 
see if there’s any thing to steal, I suppose, as 
your’e too idle to work. Off! off! and be quick 
about it!” 

The beggar-woman at once turned away to 
leave the inhospitable dwelling ; but, as she went, 
whether out of impatience to have her gone or 
out of pure brutality, Thys gave her little girl so 
violent a push behind that the poor child fell 
forward into the snow and immediately began 
to cry aloud. With flashing eyes and uplifted 
threatening finger, the mother exclaimed, — 


THE MISER. 


13 


“ God will repay you this, you wretch !” 

But with scant heed to her malediction, and 
with an ugly smile upon his countenance, Thys 
violently slammed the door behind her and re- 
turned to his place at the table. 

After a vigorous litany of imprecations upon 
all thieves, beggars, and idlers, the, worthy pair 
proceeded quietly with their breakfast. At last 
the old man inquired, — 

“ Well, Thys, how do you like your breakfast ?" 

“It is excellent, Uncle Jan. And yet there 
is poor misguided Cecilia says it’s only fit for 
a dog.” 

The expression of his eyes made it sufficiently 
evident that it was not by accident that he in- 
troduced Cecilia’s name. 

“I’m sadly afraid, Thys, that Cecilia’s straying 
every day farther and farther away from the right 
path. She gets dainty, dressy, extravagant.” 

“ Indeed and indeed, I’m sorry to say it is so, 
tJncJe Jan. I don’t often speak about it, for 
Cecilia’s just the spoilt child here ; she may do 
what she pleases, — eat butter, wear fine clothes, 
pile up the fire, give away money. I really 
pity you, Uncle Jan; and sometimes, when I 
think of all the trouble your blind indulgence 
for her may bring upon^you, it quite frightens 
me. Though, indeed, I pity our poor Cecilia 
much more, who is led away, and, as you say, 
every day gets farther and farther astray.” 

“How much is there left' of the butter we 
2 B 


14 


THE MISER. 


bought last week?” asked old Jan, his thoughts 
wandering on to another subject. 

“The half-pound is wellnigh out again,” was 
the reply. 

“ Out again ! Why, then, we shall have to 
lay out another half-franc for her extravagance ! 
Oh dear! oh dear!” 

“ Yes, to-morrow, Uncle Jan.” 

Thys saw with secret joy how the old man, 
with a gesture of despair, pressed one hand to 
his forehead, and how his whole frame was con- 
vulsed with irritation. A singular smile passed 
over his ill-favored countenance as he went 
on 

“Yes, believe it or not as you will, Uncle Jan, 
but it’s just the plain truth,— Cecilia’s getting 
thoroughly spoiled with Mother Ann. They 
give her all sorts of titbits, make up a fire fit 
to burn the house down, and scoff and sneer 
at you and me, to set her against us. That 
Cecilia is never at home and goes on as though 
money grew on your back, — that’s all the widow’s 
doing; but the hypocritical set know very well 
what they’re about; — they’re laying out money 
on a venture that they reckon will bring them 
in some thousands per cent.” 

“But, Thys, Mother Ann is poor. At her 
husband’s death she could barely raise the money 
to pay for his funeral; to-be-sure she would 
needs have an oak coffin, and four masses said 
for him ; and now you talk of money extrava- 


THE MISER. 


15 


gance, and laying but on a venture. I don’t un- 
derstand you.” 

“See, Uncle Jan,” replied the other, with well- 
feigned grief, “I can’t be silent any longer; it has 
been too long on my conscience already. And 
besides, my affection for you, my benefactor, 
obliges me ” 

“What does this strange beginning mean? 
You make me quite tremble.” 

“And well you may, poor Uncle Jan. Listen, 
and I’ll tell you something that will astonish you. 
But, for heaven’s sake, keep cool and calm ; for, if 
you were to be too much grieved and put out 
about it, I should never forgive myself.” 

“ Well, then ? well, then ?” 

“You know well enough, Uncle Jan, that 
Mother Ann has a son.” 

“Yes, to-be-sure, — little Bart [Bartholomew ] ; I 
know him well enough, — the thievish young rascal 
that used to come stealing our apples before the 
garden-wall was put to rights. If he doesn’t end 
on the gallows, why, neither he nor it will get 
their due!” 

“Yes, Uncle Jan, hut that was a long while 
ago ; before I was here. But now the child is a 
young man. He has other tricks now, — different 
enough, but not a hair’s-breadth better. Every 
'holiday, and many other times besides, when he 
might he doing something, he’s off to the ale- 
house, . drinking, dancing, singing, laughing, as 
who hut he? Wherever ‘Begone dull care’ is 


16 


THE MISER. 


being sung by a dozen roisterers, depend upon 
it, he’s one of them.” 

“Well, well, he’s just going on as one might 
have expected from his beginning! But what 
says Mother Ann to all this?” 

“ Oh, she’s just one of the same sort, and is as 
sweet upon her precious son as if his name 
already stood in the calendar ! And now do you 
see why it is- that they make so much of Cecilia 
up at the Chapel farm, always have something 
nice ready for her, and, in fact, do all they can to 
make her one of themselves, by turning her to 
their own dainty, flaunting, extravagant ways?” 

“Why, .pray?’ 

“Why, that the widow may get up a match 
between her lad and your Cecilia, to-be-sure! 
Do you see it now, Uncle Jan ? 

The old man shook his head with a thoughtful 
air, as though in doubt and unable well to see 
his way in the demonstration. 

“I understand well enough,” at last he said; 
“ but what is there in this that need frighten me 
so terribly? I haven’t to give Cecilia a portion 
when she’s married!” 

“My poor good Uncle Jan!” cried Thys, in a 
tone of compassion, “your just and generous 
heart cannot understand so much craft and self- 
ishness ! I will speak more clearly, then. Mother 
Ann is poor, and her son too. You are rich ” 

“What’s that you say?” interrupted the old 
man, in a tone of horror, such as might reasonably 


THE MISER. 


IT 


have been called forth by some terrible blas- 
phemy; “rich? I rich? Who has put such a 
wicked slander into your head?’ 

“Softly, Uncle Jan! I’m not speaking for 
myself. I know only too well what a hard shift 
we have to make both ends meet. What I’m 
talking of is Mother Ann’s calculation; so now, 
for a moment, let me speak as the widow thinks, 
— all at random. She’s poor, you’re rich, and 
Cecilia is heir to the half of whatever you may 
leave. If then the widow can only get her snugly 
married to Master Bart, these spendthrifts will 
one day lay their hands upon a good share of 
your property. No wonder then that they don’t 
mind running in debt for the present to draw 
the poor girl on ; they are just sinking a capital 
on 'post-obit for some thousands per cent, at your 
death.” 

Old Jan’s eyes opened wider and wider with 
each word Thys spoke, and he shook in every 
limb; while the latter regarded his companion’s 
growing disturbance with inward satisfaction, 
and hastened to follow up the impression he had 
made. 

“Look you, Uncle Jan; the swindling pack 
have quite made up their reckoning that you 
won’t . live much longer. And then, the moment 
the old miser — that’s what they call you — is well 
under the turf — why, then, my service to you, a 
jolly life they’ll have of it! A pretty guzzling 
there’ll be then, and fine times for Bart in the 
2 * 


18 


THE MISER. 


ale-houses ! And so, with all sorts of extra- 
vagance and abomination, they’ll squander the 
little that you’ve had so hard a struggle to scrape 
together. And then, alas ! the worst of the whole 
is, that at the end of the game our poor Cecilia 
will find herself a beggar, and most likely will 
have nothing for it but to curse her folly to the 
end of her days. But let us hope that God’s 
providence will order it better for her!” 

A long and distressing fit of coughing for some 
time hindered the old man from coming to 
speech ; and then unearthly were the sounds that 
broke from his laboring chest as they re-echoed 
in the vaulted chamber. 

Thys had left his seat, and held a wooden bowl 
with water to the sufferer’s lips with one hand, 
while with the other he gently patted him on the 
back. To see him, one would have said that he 
bore a true, a boundless affection to his aged 
friend : his voice was so gentle and compassionate, 
so caressingly did he attend the old man in his 
need. A loving son could not have had more 
anxious care for a beloved father. 

At last the cough ceased, and poor old Jan 
could once more draw his breath freely. 

Trembling still from the violence of the attack, 
he grasped Thys by the hand, and, in a tone of 
the uttermost despair, while a flood of tears 
rolled down his hollow cheeks, — 

“ Thanks! oh, thanks, my good friend!” he 
exclaimed ; “you and you alone have compassion 


THE MISER. 


19 


on me. All the rest wish me dead. Cecilia, 
you that I have loved as my own and only 
child, you too are ungrateful! And then, oh 
misery, misery ! the little bit of money that I’ve 
so hardly got together — saved upon the very 
bread out of my mouth — after my death they’ll 
squander it in mere prodigality and riot! And, 
good heavens! I must die with that dreadful 
thought in my heart ! Ah me ! And so they 
dare to say that I’m rich, Thys ?” 

“ They call you the rich miser.” 

“I dare say they think that I’m worth a 
matter of a hundred guilders?”* 

“ Fifty thousand, says the widow.” 

“ Oh me ! oh me !” cried the old man, beside 
himself, “ that’s the way that virtue and poverty 
are maligned ! But Thys, my friend, you know 
better, don’t you? — you that share my poverty 
and are my only support in all my afflictions ?” 

“They’re a pack of liars and evil-speakers, 
Uncle Jan ! Don’t trouble your head about 
them as long as only we can save our poor 
Cecilia from the snares of these deceivers.” 

“Yes, our Cecilia — and my poor money!” 
sighed the old man. “Ah, Thys! if only I was 
younger I’d turn spendthrift; I’d get rid of every 
farthing I have in riotous living. But no; then 
I might in the end come to die of hunger.” 

A short pause of silence followed this pas- 


1 guilder = 20 stivers, i. e. Is. 8 d. English money. 


50 


THE MISER. 


sionate exclamation. The old man seemed as 
laboring under an access of fever, and was evi- 
dently tortured in his mind by the terrible pros- 
pect before him. At last Thys resumed, in a 
tone of consolation: — 

“But be calm, and don’t lose heart, Uncle Jan. 
They’re not so far forward yet, the vile swindlers ! 
I don’t believe that at present Cecilia has the 
least idea of what they’re about. The poor girl 
is just led astray. True enough, she’s standing 
on the very brink of the pitfall ; but be sure that 
with good-will and spirited determination she 
may yet easily be saved.” 

The miser looked up with hope in his eyes, and 
said, imploringly, — 

“Ah, yes, my friend! for God’s sake advise me 
what I had best do! I’m quite unable to think 
for myself; my mind is utterly paralyzed with 
vexation and grief.” 

“The matter’s simple enough, Uncle Jan. 
You’re afraid that Cecilia, either now or after 
your death, will marry a spendthrift, and so all 
her inheritance be squandered and she herself 
come to poverty and wretchedness. Well, then, 
make sure of her, by getting her, once for all, 
married to a prudent, careful, saving man, that 
will make her happy.” 

“Ah, yes ! — a careful, saving man,” repeated the 
old man, sinking into thought. “Yes, indeed!” 

But, after a long consideration, he shook his 
head, and, in a discomfited tone, sighed out, — 


THE MISER. 


21 


“’Tis of no use; I’ve gone through the whole 
village in my mind, and there’s not one of the 
sort to be found, — not one at least but what’s as 
old as myself. All the rest give themselves up 
to luxury and extravagance.” 

“ You can’t say that of me, at all events,” inter- 
posed Thys, half smiling. 

The old man regarded him for a moment with 
a sort of timid astonishment, and then replied, — 

“ Ah ! only to see how one’s wits can go wool- 
gathering ! That you should be the only one that 
I’ve not thought of, and just the only one that’s 
fit for her! But, Thys, you’d never take her; 
you don’t love her.” 

Thys looked down with an air of embarrass- 
ment. 

“I don’t know about that,” he replied, with a 
sigh; 4 ‘but if I were rich I’d give all I had to see 
her happy.” 

“ Then you must indeed love her dearly, Thys. 
But then too, alas ! my dear friend, she’s so sadly 
set against you, — quite without cause, I well 
know. One might really say that her dislike of 
you came ofia diseased imagination.” 

“I know that she hates me,” interrupted Thys; 
“I know well enough, too, that she will go on 
hating me; that I should he unhappy with her.” 

“ And yet you would marry her?” 

“I feel so strongly moved by compassion for 
her and gratitude to you that I would make the 
sacrifice. In her infatuation she hates and de- 


22 


THE MISER. 


spises me ; well, in return I will save her, be her 
guardian angel for life ; will care for her and spare 
for her, and see that the trifle she may one day 
have is kept together. And then perhaps — who 
can tell ? — perhaps in the end she may reward me 
with a change of feeling toward me.” 

These words, uttered in a tone of high resolve 
and magnanimous self-sacrifice, made a deep im- 
pression on the old man’s feelings. With much 
emotion, and grasping his companion’s hand, he 
exclaimed, — 

“ Thanks, thanks, my generous friend ! you are 
the only thoroughly upright man that I know. 
And so you would marry Cecilia, live on with 
her here in my house, and help me to reach the 
grave without falling into worse poverty than I 
am in now ? And after my death you will take 
care that the few pence I have scraped together 
are not squandered ? God bless you ! I accept 
the sacrifice you offer, and recognise you as my 
best benefactor.” 

“ You’ve made up your mind then, Uncle Jan?” 

“ Irrevocably, my good Thys.” 

“But should Cecilia refuse?” 

At this question the old man only shrugged 
his shoulders and made no answer; he dared 
not fairly contemplate it. 

“Always the same !” cried Thys, somewhat im- 
patiently, in a tone between jest and annoyance. 

“It is true, my good friend, the girl has down- 
right bewitched me ; give me a little time to per- 


THE MISER. 


23 


suade her. And do you, meanwhile, try and do 
something for yourself. Be friendly with her; 
talk to her a little; don’t he so sharp with her 
about a hit of butter more or less ; keep a good 
sod of peat against she comes home.” 

“What weakness, Uncle Jan!” interrupted the 
other, somewhat scornfully; “when once the ill 
seed has fairly taken root, it’s not a hit of butt or 
that will clear the ground of it.” 

“Well, well!” answered the old man, half put 
out, “if fair means won’t do, — why, then, we must 
see.” 

And with these words he rose from his seat, 
and, coughing as he went, directed his way to one 
of the doors. 

“ I will go up-stairs for a while,” he said ; “ I am 
tired. I shall see you again at dinner-time ; don’t 
put too much salt to the turnips.” 

“They’re frozen, Uncle Jan.” 

“ They’ll be all the tenderer, Thys. And use the 
same pot again; the butter has quite soaked 
into it.” 

And with these words he disappeared, and 
immediately afterward his step was heard upon 
the stairs. 

For a few moments Thys stood listening, till 
he had heard the sound of two or three doors as 
they were successively shut to and locked. Then 
suddenly his bearing entirely changed. The stoop 
disappeared from his shoulders, a scornful smile 
passed over his lips, his eyes rolled briskly under 


24 


THE MISER. 


their brows; — in fact, he had all the joyous air of 
a victor returning from the field of battle. 

Stepping on tiptoe, he now approached a cup- 
board, took out a loaf of tolerably fine bread, cut 
a substantial slice, and buttered it half an inch 
thick. With glistening eyes and a smile of glut- 
tonous delight he bit into it, and rapidly swal- 
lowed mouthful after mouthful with indescribable 
greediness. Then he shut up the cupboard, put 
every thing in its place again, and resumed his 
seat in the chimney-corner, having first well 
heaped up the fire with peat, which he .now pro- 
ceeded to blow into a blaze that it was a comfort 
to look upon. Then, having for some time 
rubbed his hands with an expression of intense 
satisfaction, he settled down into an attitude of 
repose, murmuring to himself, with a hateful 
smile upon his countenance, — 

’“Ha, ha! the good-for-nothing old skinflint! 
Why, he’d cut a farthing in four ! Before he 
pays away a centime he turns it ten times Tound, 
as though it were a bit of his soul. He’ll soon 
come to putting his old shoes in the pot, because 
once upon a time they’ve been greased. And 
then he’s so poor ! — oh, so poor ! — as if I didn’t 
know well enough why it is that he locks all the 
doors behind him so carefully when he goes up- 
stairs. How he lies routing about in the ten- 
guilder pieces, the miser ! However, he’ll have 
so much the ‘ more to leave behind him; and I’ll 
take care that I get my share.” 


THE MISER. 


25 


Then, after a moment’s pause, he resumed, 
thinking aloud: — 

“Strange it is that the old money-grubber 
should concern himself so about what’s to be- 
come of his savings when he’s gone ! Why, he’s 
in case to haunt the house afterward! To-be- 
sure, of all foolishness in the world that of a 
miser is the most foolish. To be fond of money 
just because it glitters! Why, one might as well 
be in love with so many bits of broken crockery ! 
No ! if gold is the world’s god, ’tis not its glitter 
that makes it so. Money is the real devil in 
Doctor Faustus ; whoever has it at his command — 
a wish, and, hey, presto ! ’tis there ! Ah ! in that 
view I too love money, and still more than Uncle 
Jan does. But let the wretched old miser once 
be under ground, and if ever he comes back he’ll 
see whether I’ll go on cheating the dogs of their 
portion and feasting upon rye-bread sopped in 
warm water. It wouldn’t cost one a great deal to 
turn this nursery of spiders into a right proper 
little manor-house; ’twould do very well new- 
painted inside and out and comfortably fur- 
nished; and then good clothes and a good 
kitchen, plenty of meat and a good tap of 
beer, and — who knows? — perhaps wine and game, 
if the old fellow cuts up well — perhaps a horse 
even, and a servant; and then I’m your honor, 
and have the rascally peasants hat in hand to me. 
But I’ll live carefully for all that; — give nothing 

away, and there will be plenty for every thing. 

3 


26 


THE MISER. 


Cecilia will get the half; she’s the only one of 
her line. And I think I may manage to shove 
the rest on one side, and get the other half for 
myself, though I’m not of the family. Well, 
we’ll see. When I accepted the old man’s invi- 
tation to come and live with him at the Abbey 
farm, and made myself the slave of all his whims 
and caprices, I reckoned his life at some four or 
five years; now there are ten years gone by 
already, and I’m no longer a young man; half 
isn’t enough to pay me now; I must have all. 
But Cecilia, — yes, there’s the hitch. I must 
make friends with her, and then sound her about 
marriage. But howto go about it? Suppose I 
really loved her. I do believe I feel something 
of the sort for her. Come, come, Thys, no 
fooleries! they’ll never answer; I’m hardly the 
sort of man to come round her on that tack. 
But there are other ways and means just as 
effectual, and perhaps more so.” 

Then he was silent a while, till suddenly his 
countenance darkened again, and, with his eyes 
fixed on the ground, he muttered, — 

“ But what if she’s not to be moved ? If every 
thing should run counter to my plans?” 

A diabolical expression distorted his counte- 
nance; but he recovered himself almost on the 
instant, and added, in a lighter tone, — 

“But why should one put oneself out before 
one knows that there’s any need for it? Let me 
see first, and if it won’t do that way, why, then, 


THE MISER. 


27 


I must try it on in some other. Meanwhile, I’ll 
he off to the garden, to grub up Uncle Jan’s 
turnips from the snow, and at the same time 
to con over some fine speeches against Cecilia 
comes home.” 

And he disappeared through the back door, 
chuckling as he went. 


28 


THE MISER. 


CHAPTER H. 

A little beyond the miser’s dismal habitation, 
just upon the verge of the bare and open moor, 
stood a small farm-house, the clay-built walls of 
which sufficiently testified to the modest position 
of its occupants in the social scale. Nevertheless, 
poor as its appearance was, and monotonously as 
the universal white around it showed, yet all about 
the humble dwelling there reigned an air of life 
and movement, not to say of joyousness, which 
made the whole scene a fitting subject for a 
painter’s ideal of a cheerful landscape. 

Beside the drawing-machine of the well, which 
swayed its long arms up and down aloft in air, 
stood a peasant-girl busily engaged in drawing 
the water to wash turnips for the cattle. A right 
blooming complexion, rather perhaps to be likened 
to the peony than the rose, testified of vigorous 
health. She was not afraid to plunge her bare 
arms elbow-deep in the half-frozen water, and sang 
aloud at her work with a voice so clear and high, 
and a tone so lively, that one was irresistibly 
carried away into a dreaming anticipation of the 
yet far-off month of May. 

Near the cottage-door stood a young peasant, 


THE MISER. 


29 


just as healthy-looking as the girl. In his large 
mild eyes was mirrored a mind at peace and a 
soul full of kindness ; his whole countenance bore 
upon it the expression of a pleasant enthusiasm 
that seemed to look on life with a perpetual smile. 
There spoke out in his features and bearing so 
much of intelligence, so much at once of freedom 
and refinement, that from among a hundred 
peasant-lads of his age he must inevitably have 
been picked out as the most highly endowed, both 
morally and intellectually. 

The young man was busily at work splitting up 
long hazel-staves, to be afterward made into hoops ; 
and certainly he seemed to be losing no time about 
the job. So easy were all his movements that 
the staves seemed to fly through his fingers. £Tor 
were his feet at rest either; he did not stand still a 
moment without shifting their position ; one might 
almost have said he was dancing at his work. 
And, in fact, while his sister was warbling away 
at hers by the well, he whistled an accompani- 
ment to her song, and unconsciously kept time to 
the measure with hand and foot. A black dog 
kept careering around him, diligently wagging his 
tail, and now jumping playfully at his hands, now 
vociferously barking, as though he too was minded 
to join in the concert. 

On thp cherry-tree hard by sat the friendly and 
familiar robin-redbreast ; in the bushes not far off 
the hedge-sparrows twittered cheerily, while the 
3* c 


30 


THE :.IISER. 


modest little wren fluttered hither and thither from 
branch to branch and from spray to spray. 

Over all this the sun threw his streams of light ; 
the snow on the cottage-roof sparkled like dia- 
mond-dust, gardens and fields showed as bathed 
in rose-colored and purple mist. t 

After a while, however, whether it was that her 
song was at an end, or because she now had to 
stoop more deeply over the bucket in which she 
was washing her turnips, the maiden’s voice was 
heard no longer. 

Immediately, as though he had all the while 
only been waiting for his turn, the lad flung his 
cap high into the air, caught it as it fell, and, with 
pleasing voice and manner, opened a merry country- 
ditty : — 

“Away, away with grief and sorrow ! 

Away with trouble and with care ! 

Let’s only think about to-morrow, 

And all the fun that’s in the fair. 

Horns a-braying, fifes a-playing, 

Drums a-beating, all so gay ! 

Down with care, and away with sorrow ! 

Here’s to-day, and our fair’s to-morrow.” 


“Bart! Bart!” cried the damsel, laughing, 
“you’re in one of your wild fits again: you’re 
enough to send one into fits with your madcap 
tricks !” 

“ That’s right, dear Wantje [Johanna],” an- 
swered he ; “ keep me in order, or I shall soon 
begin playing I know not what pranks. The truth 


31 


t THE miser. 

V ' 

is, I feel as happy — as happy as if I had more 
money than Cecilia’s old uncle.” 

44 Indeed ! and why so, pray ? "What is there in 
the wind, then ? I suppose you’re going to the 
fair on Monday?” 

“Well, I suppose I shall have to go to the fair; 
you know, Wanna, it’s time we were looking out 
for a pig ; but that’s not what I’m so happy about. 
I’ve kept it secret all this while ; but come, I’ll tell 
you all about it now.” 

He went up to his sister, took her by the hand, 
and led her away behind an angle of the house, 
with such an air of mystery that she opened her 
eyes and looked at him all astonished. 

44 Well, what does it all mean? what’s it all 
about?” at last she murmured out. 

44 Be quiet!” whispered Bart; and then, with his 
lips close to her ear, — 

44 Do you know what month of the year we’re 
in, Wantje?” he asked. 

44 Let me see. Last week we were in the first 
month, I know. Well, I think by this time we 
must be in the short month; are we not?” 

44 Quite right, and to-morrow’s the fourth of it. 
jSTow, Wantje, do you remember what saint’s name 
stands in the calendar for that day?” 

44 How should I know that?” 

44 Why, it’s St. Johanna !” cried Bart, with joyous 
exultation. 

44 St. Johanna? that’s mother’s fete-day !” replied 


82 


THE MISER. 


Wantje, her eyes inquisitively bent upon her bro- 
ther’s face. 

“And now am I out of my wits, Wantje ? Why, 
I do believe, if I hadn’t reminded you, you’d clean 
have forgotten it.” 

“Well, but that’s nothing to be in such a way 
about, Bart. To-be-sure, we shall have a merry 
day of it. We’ll make a good cake, and have a 
can of good beer, and roast chestnuts, and tell 
stories, and ask riddles. Mind that you have 
something new, Bart.” 

“Yes, yes, Wantje ; but all that isn’t what I’m 
so merry about. Will you hold your tongue now, 
and say nothing about it to mother if I tell you 
all?” 

“ Not a single word, Bart.” 

“Well, then, listen. You know very well I’ve 
been making a pretty bit of money with this hoop- 
splitting ; and this year, for the first time, we shall 
be able to put by a trifle after rent, rates, and taxes 
are paid. I’ve another whole load of hoops ready 
now, and — mother doesn’t know this, mind — I’m 
to get a few cents a bundle more for them than I 
did before. To-morrow I shall go into town, 
deliver my hoops, get paid, and shall be able to 
keep back a trifle of money without mother’s 
being a bit the wiser.” 

“ Fie, Bart !” interrupted his sister, indignantly; 
“I shall just let mother know that without more 
ado, that I can tell you.” 

“Pon’t be up on your high horse so soon, 


THE MISER. 


38 


Wantje. Hear me out; and then, if you don’t 
dance with joy yourself too, why, say I’m a liar, 
that’s all. Haven’t you noticed, Wanna, how 
sadly mother’s best neckerchief is gone off, and 
how miserably shabby it makes her look? I’m 
downright ashamed when I see her going to 
church in it.” 

“ That’s very true, Bart ; it has struck me so too 
before now.” 

This reply seemed much to delight the young 
man, and he proceeded, quite enthusiastically, — 

“Well, then, Wanna, do you know what I’ve 
thought of? You don’t? I mean to buy a fine 
large handsome neckerchief for mother ; so hand- 
some that Mistress Meulemans of the Manor farm 
sha’n’t have a handsomer; all covered with flowers, 
red, yellow, and blue, that you may see it from 
here to the church.” 

The girl took her brother’s hand in hers, and 
quietly, but with an emotion that came from the 
very heart, — 

“Ah, that’s well done of you, Bart!” she said; 
“how pleased mother will be !” 

“Yes; but, Wanna dear,” pursued the brother, 
in the joy of his heart, “that’s not all. We must 
have some flowers ; and I know three songs, four 
stories, and seven riddles, all spick-and-span new. 
I have learned them all on purpose, and kept them 
for mother’s saint’ s-day. Ah, Wantje, Wantje! 
how we will laugh and sing and be merry ! The 
tears come into my eyes when I think how mother 


34 


THE MISER. 


will stare when, right in the middle of winter, 
Cecilia comes up to her with a whole nosegay of 
beautiful fresh flowers and throws the fine new 
neckerchief over her shoulders.” 

“ But, Bart, I look all about : where are you to 
get the flowers from? I think you’ve lost your 
senses.” 

Bart looked archly at his sister, and smiled 
kindly at her as he answered, — * 

“ Wantje, do you know ever a lad of the name 
of Frank? A young fellow with fair hair and 
great eyes I mean, that’s one of the under-gar- 
deners at the manor-house ?” 

Poor Wantje turned red to the very roots of her 
hair, and looked at the ground in a state of great 
confusion. 

“Come, come,” said Bart, cheerily and kindly, 
“you needn’t blush so about it, Wantje: he’s as 
good a young fellow as there is, knows his busi- 
ness thoroughly, and is as merry and good-hu- 
mored as the day is long. Well, now, don’t you 
think, Wantje, that perhaps he’d get the flowers 
for me just because I’m your brother, eh ?” 

But at this very moment a voice from the house 
interrupted the conversation just in time to save 
the blushing maiden the embarrassment of a reply. 
It was that of their mother, calling to them : — 

“Bart! Wanna! dinner!” 

The latter lost no time in availing herself of the 
opportunity to escape, and made the best of her 


THE MISER* 


85 


way in, while Bart followed close after her, repeat- 
ing, in an undertone, — 

“ Wantie, you may tell Cecilia, but not mother. 
Be sure you don’t tell mother.” 

In-doors, meanwhile, the mother was busily oc- 
cupied in ladling out the soup, or rather porridge, 
into a bowl of ample proportions. She was not 
alone, however; for beside .the fire sat a young 
girl, whose dress, very similar to Wanna’ s upon 
the whole, had nevertheless in its make, and espe- 
cially in its wearer’s mode of carrying it, something 
about it which savored of town bringing-up. H or 
were there wanting other points of discrimination, 
which showed at a glance that it was no country- 
girl who was bearing Bart’s mother company : the 
lower tone of the complexion, the ‘more delicate 
features, the less sturdy limbs, all told the same 
tale. Her eyes were soft, the expression of her 
countenance gentle and patient, with something 
of a pensive character about it that drew the 
beholder to her as by a charm ; — something earnest 
and thoughtful, which testified at once of vigor of 
character and depth of feeling. She was at work 
with her needle on some article of female apparel. 

The mistress of the house now turned to her 
guest, and said, in an affectionate tone of voice, — 

“ Come, Cecilia, dinner is on table.” 

At this moment in came Bart, singing his old 
refrain : — 

“ Down with care, and away with sorrow ! 

Here’s to-day, and our fair’s to-morrow. ” 


36 


THE MISER. 


No sooner, however, had Cecilia’s sweet but 
earnest countenance met his eye, than he suddenly 
broke off his song and moderated the haste of his 
walk, as though impressed by her presence with a 
feeling of reverence. 

All present now took their places at the table 
and said a silent grace, after which each, spoon in 
hand, was soon busily employed upon the well- 
tasting porridge with all the zest of a good honest 
appetite. That finished, a large dish of potatoes 
and a piece of bacon succeeded upon the table. 

All the party seemed thoroughly happy ; from 
each one’s eyes beamed health, satisfaction, and 
thankfulness. Ever and anon Bart threw in his 
jest, pretended to burn himself with the hot pota- 
toes, or made comical and unintelligible allusions 
to the morrow’s festival ; and thus the merry laugh 
went round all the time the meal lasted. Had 
some man of millions perchance seen this little 
company at their dinner, assuredly, with all his 
wealth, he would have envied the happiness of 
their simple lot. 

But hardly had they begun upon the second and 
final dish, when a light and timid knock was heard 
at the door. 

“ That’s the widow of the poor mason that died 
of a fall some months since,” said the mother; “I 
saw her on Sunday at church, and told her she 
might call here every Tuesday for a trifle. Wanna, 
cut her a hunch of bread.” 


THE MISER. 


37 

And then, turning toward the door, she cried, 
“ Come in !” 

The door opened, and showed a poor woman, 
still tolerably young, but with cheeks pale and 
hollow, and clothing so scant and thin that it made 
one shiver to look at her. Her countenance, worn 
and faded as it was, bore the impress of earnest- 
ness and intelligence ; there was an expression of 
nobleness and energy on it which testified that 
thus employed the poor widow was not in her 
right place. She led by the hand a little girl, 
whose teeth chattered with the cold. 

With downcast eyes, she went on with the pater- 
noster which she had already commenced while 
standing at the door, but else not a word did she 
utter. Wanna handed her the piece of bread 
which she had cut, at the same time saying, — 

“Poor Kate! I had never thought to see you 
come to this pass. You, so prudent and so indus- 
trious! It quite hurts me to see it.” 

“The winter is so long,” sighed the widow; 
“ I’ve not been able to get any work, Wanna ; and 
now I’m just driven to it by hunger ; but in the 
summer there will be work to be got, and then 
things will go better.” 

The poor child meanwhile gazed fixedly on the 
table with hungry eyes and watering mouth. 
Cecilia contemplated the scene with the deepest 
compassion. All at once, as though some sudden 
inspiration had flitted through her heart, she cast 
upon Bart a look of earnest and peculiar meaning ; 

4 


38 


THE MISER. 


and at the same instant, whether it was that he 
took the hint from her or followed a similar sug- 
gestion of his own thoughts, he went up to the 
poor widow, took her by the hand, and led her to 
the chair which he had just left. 

“Sit down, dear Kate,” he said, “and take some 
dinner with us. Where there’s enough for four 
there’s enough for six ; and if the calculation turns 
out false, why, God will bring it right in the end.” 

While these few words were saying, Cecilia had 
set the little girl upon her own chair ; additional 
seats were soon drawn to the table, and all the 
party made a hearty and cheerful meal from the 
good food before them. But, as soon as the poor 
widow had appeased the first cravings of her hun- 
ger, she kept turning her eyes with an ineffable 
expression of tenderness on the child, that with 
childlike happiness and unconcern was enjoying 
the good things before her ; and soon silent tears 
began to trickle down the mother’s cheeks. Every 
one present regarded her with astonished looks, 
which seemed to inquire of her the cause of this 
sudden emotion, — every one, that is, except Cecilia, 
who alone understood her feelings, and at once 
addressed herself to them. N 

“Is that your only child?” she asked. 

“Ho indeed, miss,” answered the widow. “I 
have two more ; this here is the eldest. And the 
others — poor little lambs — are sitting at home with- 
out a fire ; and for the last week they’ve had no- 
thing to eat but a morsel of rye-bread.” 


THE MISER. 


39 


“But what was it that brought the tears into 
your eyes so suddenly ?” asked Wanna. 

The poor woman bowed her head, and answered, 
without looking up, — 

“A mother — but you won’t quite understand it, 
Wanna. It makes me sad when I see my Mieken* 
eating there, and then think of the poor little 
things that are sitting hungry at home.” 

But, even while she was speaking, Bart rose 
from table, and, as he wiped his mouth, — 

“I understand it well,” he said. 

Then, turning to his mother, he went on : — 

“ Mother, I’ll work two hours more every day, 
and I’ll give up my Sunday’s beer-money, if you’ll 
give poor Widow Kate and one of her children 
their dinner every day, as long as I can pay for it 
by my overwork and my saving.” 

The mother looked on her son for a while with 
sparkling eyes ; then, in a low voice, and with a 
tear trembling on her eyelids, — 

“Bart, my boy,” she said, “I’ve always loved 
you dearly, but now I love you better than ever.” 

As for the poor widow, her emotion was intense. 
With a countenance beaming with gratitude, she 
grasped Bart’s hand, and exclaimed, in a tone of 
solemn benediction, — 

“ God is just. You give to your neighbor not 
only the sweat of your brow, but the kindly feel- 
ings of your heart. You do for the poor widow 


* Diminutive of Mary. 


40 


THE MISER. 


all that yon could do for a sister. God is just, and 
he will repay it you with happiness here upon 
earth.” 

And as she spoke she glanced at Cecilia, as 
though indicating to her young benefactor the 
source whence that happiness should flow. 

Cecilia’s eyes meanwhile had met Bart’s with an 
expression of tender gratitude, which, along with 
the widow’s words, had well nigh turned his head. 
For a moment he looked proudly up, but almost 
in the same instant, as though anxious to throw 
off an emotion that was too much for him, with a 
hasty gesture and a light laugh he cried, — 

“ Hold, there ! let me alone, or you’ll send me 
clean out of my seven senses ! What’s that you’re 
saying about happiness? As it is, I wouldn’t 
change with any king on earth. Sit down by the 
fire a bit, Kate, and give yourself a good warm. 
Here, Wanna, bring us a bundle of brushwood, 
and let’s have a blaze ; get the bellows and blow 
till it crackles again.” 

Cecilia meanwhile had taken her seat by the 
fireplace, with the child on her lap. What it was 
that she was so quietly whispering to the happy 
little lamb none of the others could hear; but 
something sweetly pleasant it must surely have 
been that passed between them, for the little thing 
threw her arms round her kind patroness’s neck 
and gave her a right hearty kiss. The poor widow 
contemplated the scene with a smile of heavenly 
satisfaction. 


THE MISER. 


41 


But presently Cecilia set the child down, went 
up to the mother, and said something to her in an 
undertone. She was evidently proposing to her 
that they should leave the house together. Wanna, 
who as well as all the rest noticed this, approached 
her brother, and softly whispered in his ear, — 

“ What can Cecilia want with poor Widow Kate ? 
She can never be thinking of taking her to her 
uncle’s ?” 

“ Why, can’t you see ? She’s going to give her 
something, to-be- sure.” 

“Ah, yes! the seven stivers she’s just got from 
the landlady at the White Hart for making the 
children’s clothes. But Cecilia gives away every 
penny she earns. Her uncle must know of it : I 
wonder what he says to it.” 

“ Well, why should you trouble your head about 
it, Wanna? It’s no business of ours.” 

“ Well, Bart, I was only making the remark.” 

While this little discussion was going on aside, 
the widow had been offering her hearty thanks to 
Mother Ann ; Cecilia now expressed hers to Bart 
in another sweet smile, and bade them all farewell 
until the afternoon ; and then, taking little Mieken 
by the hand, left the cottage, closely followed by 
poor Kate. 

For the distance of a hundred yards or more 
they walked on together in silence. At last they 
reached the end of the footpath- which led up from 
the road to the cottage, and here Cecilia led her 
companion aside, under the cover of a hedge, and, 
4 * 


42 


THE MISER. 


first looking carefully round on every side, to make 
sure that they were not observed, began, in a sup- 
pressed voice, — 

“ Your name is Kate Melsens, I think?” 

“Yes, miss,” was the answer. “My husband 
that’s gone lived with your father in his young 
days.” 

“ That I know, Kate. And has he never told 
you of what happened in our house when he was 
living with us ?” 

“ Of a fire, miss ? Oh yes 1 the fingers of his 
left hand were all stiff and crooked from it.” 

Cecilia stood for a while with her eyes steadfastly 
bent upon the ground ; she seemed oppressed with 
a feeling of extreme sadness. Little Mieken looked 
up to her with an air of concern, and pulled vehe- 
mently at her hand, as though to rouse her up 
from her depression. The widow looked on in 
silence, and not without amazement. 

Presently Cecilia took the poor woman by the 
hand. 

“Do you know, Kate,” she said, “that your 
husband at that time saved my life at great risk of 
his own ? Yes, indeed; but for him, brave man, I 
should have been burned to ashes.” 

“ But, miss, any one else would have done as 
much ; that needn’t affect you so grievously now.” 

“ That’s not what I was sad about, Kate. But I 
would so gladly stand your children’s friend in 
their need, and, alas ! alas! I have not the means.” 

“ A kind heart is the best almsgiving.” 


THE MISER. 


48 


“Listen to me, now, Kate; but mind, you 
mustn’t say a word about it. Look you, here are 
seven stivers, and perhaps to-morrow, when you 
come to the Chapel farm with your other child, I 
shall be able to give you a trifle more ; and I will 
make some clothes for your children out of some 
that I have of my poor mother’s, — good warm 
things. And perhaps I may be able to find some- 
thing that will do for you too. And if only God 
will bless my endeavors to do something for you, 
why, perhaps the worst of your distress may soon 
be at an end.” 

These few words deeply affected the poor widow, 
so that for very emotion she could not restrain 
her tears, which flowed abundantly, dropping in a 
hot shower upon Cecilia’s hand, which she had 
seized and held in hers. At last she found words : — 

“Ah, miss, I was so wretched ! so wretched that 
I sometimes was wellnigh beside myself. Yes, 
indeed ; so that I believe I should have long since 
died of it, only I felt that I must not; for what 
would have become of my poor lambs then ? And 
now your kind heart and your friendly words, still 
more than the help you are giving me, lift me all 
at once -quite out of my sorrows. Oh, how I will 
pray to God for you ! On our knees will I and my 
children ask for blessings on you each day in our 
poor hovel.” 

“If I were but rich! if I were but rich!” re- 
peated Cecilia, meanwhile, absently. 

“Rich!” repeated poor Kate; “if you’re not 


44 


THE MISER. 


now, you’ll be one day, miss, as rich as a 
Jew.” 

“ You are mistaken, Kate. People think so, I 
know ; but that is all a mistake.” 

“But are you not your uncle’s next heiress, 
then ?” 

“My good woman, my uncle is not rich. All 
that he has is the poor old house we live in, and a 
very trifling income besides.” 

“No, no, miss; that is not so. He has a great 
hoard of money somewhere besides. My hus- 
band, you know, was a mason, and once, a good 
while ago, he did a long job of work for your uncle 
at the Abbey farm, all in secret. I know all about 
it ; and I dare say there’s not another living soul 
besides himself knows so much about his affairs 
as I do.” 

Cecilia could neither speak nor stir for utter 
astonishment. 

“And I don’t say it out of pride, miss,” pro- 
ceeded the widow, “but I may call you cousin, 
too ; for your uncle’s late wife was my husband’s 
mother’s sister. So it goes in the world : — one up 
and another down ; families scattered hither and 
thither to get their bread, till in the end folks no 
longer know their own relations.” 

“And so dear little Mieken, too, is a cousin of 
mine ?” inquired Cecilia, with real pleasure, kindly 
stroking the child’s head the while. 

“Well, she is; though far enough off, very far, 
indeed,” replied the widow. “ Still, if every thing 


THE MISER. 


45 


went fairly in the world, I should have my share 
in the inheritance; hut that hypocritical cheat, 
Thys, will take good care that none of our side of 
the family gets any thing. 

“ Nevertheless, my uncle is a just man,” said 
Cecilia. “ His way of life is a strange one, hut he 
has a good heart for all that.” 

“ I know that, miss ; hut do you know Thys?” 

To this question Cecilia could only reply by a 
look at once of wonder and interrogation. 

“I know him,” proceeded Kate. “He long 
lived in the village where I was born. Thys is a 
man that in his young days ruined his parents 
with his extravagance and in the end broke his 
father’s heart. Afterward, when he came to want, 
as he’d had a pretty good education, he got his 
living as a kind of agent in all sorts of odd jobs, 
and black jobs too, for the matter of that; and so, 
to set some crooked matter or another straight, he 
got his foot in at the Abbey farm. He soon saw 
that there was a fine field for him and his 
tricks there. Spendthrift and glutton as he is, he 
shammed the miser and careful housekeeper. 
Ho you know why, miss ? To rob me, — me and 
so many other poor folks of our side of the family, 
— to rob us, I say, of our share of the inheritance. 
And perhaps even — hut no, it can’t come to that 
either; your uncle is too fond of you.” 

Cecilia stood with her head bowed down and 
her eyes fixed on the ground. She had forgotten 
herself and all about her in her astonishment at 
D 


46 


THE MISER. 


the singular revelations of the widow, who now 
went on : — 

“ But fear nothing, miss ; we sometimes have 
our wits more about us for others than for our- 
selves. Thys may yet find that poor Kate may 
perhaps trip him up one of these days, clever as 
he is. Besides, miss, you’re the only one of your 
side of the family, and the direct heir, as your 
father was own brother to your uncle Jan. Well, 
we’ll talk over this matter again; for the present 
I just wished to put you on your guard against 
the hypocrite ; but you’ve been standing too long 
here in the cold, all out of kindness to a poor 
widow. Kow I’ll go home to my little ones to 
gladden their hearts with the good news, and to 
pray for you, miss.” 

Cecilia roused herself from her reverie, and 
seized her new friend by the hand. 

“Dear Cousin Kate,” she said, “will you do 
something for me? But mind, you must not 
forget to do it really.” 

“ That I will, and gladly, miss !’ 

“Well, then, say the prayers not for me, 
but for my uncle. You’ll be sure and not for- 
get it?” 

“ I will surely do it.” 

“ Good-by till to-morrow, then.” 

And with an outpouring of the most fervent 
thanks the widow took her way toward her poor 
home, ever and anon casting a look back upon 
Cecilia, who on her side also was now hastening 


THE MISER. 


47 


homeward. With emotion the poor mother said 
to her child, as they went, — 

“ Mieken, last night you dreamed of an angel, 
did you not? Well, that is the angel! and that 
villain Thys, at the Abbey farm, he is the devil ! 
Come, Mieken dear, let’s make haste, child.” 


48 


THE MISER. 


CHAPTER III. 

Arrived at her home, Cecilia opened the door 
and entered. In the ground-floor room she found 
no one. The cold solitude of the place made a 
deep impression upon her feelings, notwithstand- 
ing her being bo well accustomed to it. Slowly 
her eye wandered round the chamber, and fell 
half-unconsciously upon the gray cobwebs that 
tapestried the walls. A deep expression of sor- 
row and compassion hung upon her countenance, 
and for a while she stood, lost in thought, in the 
middle of the room. Assuredly her mind was 
occupied in a comparison between the heavenly 
tone of cheerfulness, contentment, and love, which 
reigned in the modest cottage she had just left, 
and the chill solitude of the apartment in which 
she now found herself. Soon, however, she took 
a seat by the fireplace in the chimney-corner, 
and contemplated the ashes with vagrant eye. 
A few words which escaped from her lips in her 
reverie showed that it was the recent disclosures 
made by Widow Kate that were busying her 
mind. 

Hardly had she been seated there for a few 
moments, when a man’s head showed itself behind 


THE MISER. 


49 


her, projecting through the half-open door of a 
small side-chamber. As soon as this new-comer 
espied the maiden, a singular expression shot 
over his countenance; his gray eyes glistened 
with satisfaction under the bushy eyebrows, tell- 
ing plainly enough of evil cunning, while the 
great mouth, drawn backward into a stupid grin, 
betrayed a hideous combination of greediness and 
triumph. 

Instantly the man disappeared, but immediately 
afterward returned, and passed into the large room, 
with three lumps of peat in his hand and a 
bundle of brushwood under his arm. He came 
forward with as pleasant a smile upon his coun- 
tenance and as much of simple good-heartedness 
in it as his repulsive features admitted of his 
assuming. 

“ Good-day, Cecilia!” he began, in a kind tone 
of voice. “It is cold, is it not? Come, take 
your feet out of the ashes, and I’ll make up a 
warm little fire for us.” 

The maiden looked at Thys — for he it was 
— all in amaze. Never before had she heard 
these tones in his voice, never before beheld 
that honest smile upon his face. She was totally 
at a loss what to make of the change, and, 
with the widow’s warning words just fresh in 
her memory, was still more perplexed than she 
would otherwise have been. With rapid move- 
ments, meanwhile, Thys laid the peat upon the 
hearth, and purposely so arranged the fuel that 
5 


50 


THE MISER. 


by far the greater part of it should be piled up 
toward the side on which Cecilia sat. 

“What are you about, Thys?” she exclaimed; 
“you are laying the wood quite outside the 
hearth.” 

“ That’s that you may get a good warm, 
Cecilia,” was his reply, while with the blow- 
pipe he wrought the wood into a flame which 
it joyed the heart to see. 

“Look there!” he went on; “that’s the way. 
It’s not for myself, Cecilia, but for you ; but if 
it gives you pleasure, why, so it does me too. 
even though I should have no good of it my- 
self.” 

“But — but, Thys,” she cried, in astonishment, 

“ I don’t understand you ; or is it just for a joke ? 
You’re quite a different man, all of a sudden.” 

“Ah, Cecilia,” sighed Thys, in a melancholy 
tone, while he fixed his eyes imploringly on hers, 
“you don’t know me ! you hate me !” 

“ Hate you ! fie, that’s an ugly word ! I’m 
afraid of you, Thys, that’s true; you’re always so 
sour, and speak so roughly to me. You know 
very well, Thys, that I desire nothing so much 
as to be kind and friendly with everybody; that’s 
my temper.’ 

“You’ll not believe me, Cecilia, but that’s just 
my way too, and always has been.” 

“Your way?” cried the maiden, incredulously/" 

“Ah, Cecilia!” he again sighed out, “it grieves 
me to see myself so misunderstood by you that 


THE MISEE. 


51 


I am forced, much against my will, to lay all my 
heart open to you. I am sincerely attached to 
poor old Uncle Jan ; and latterly my only end 
and aim in life has been to make my benefactor’s 
last days easy and peaceful and as much as pos- 
sible* to spare him all annoyance. You women 
are always so simple, and can never understand 
one’s doing in a small matter what isn’t well 
perhaps in itself, in order to gain some great 
good. However, that’s what I’ve been doing. 
Uncle Jan is sadly avaricious. His whole soul is 
in his money. I don’t mean to blame him, 
Cecilia ; it’s a weakness of old age. Well, to 
contradict and thwart him in that respect would 
only embitter his life and shorten his days. 
What have I done, then? Why, out of love to 
him I’ve played the miser myself, — have pinched 
and lived hard, gone cold and hungry, and sat 
day after day in this solitary den, that’s more 
like a grave than any thing else. Yes indeed, 
Cecilia, many a poor creature I’ve hunted away 
from the door while my heart was bleeding for 
them all the while. I have longed for society 
and friends, and I have let the best years of my 
life go by in this deathlike solitude. I have loved 
you as the very image of simple, unaffected good- 
ness ; my soul has thirsted after your sisterly affec- 
tion; and yet I have been bitter and harsh with 
yon, — rough and rude sometimes, I know it well 
enough. And why have I done all this ? It was 
— try and understand me, Cecilia — it was all to 


52 


THE MISER. 


please Uncle Jan, and tliat I might be a comfort 
to him in his old age.” 

Cecilia seemed quite overcome by his words 
and manner, though still unable to say a word 
for sheer astonishment. 

“Oh, how I have suffered!” he continued, in 
a tone of desperation. “Always feigning, never 
oneself, cried out upon for one’s self-sacrifice, 
and obliged to put up with all in silence: it is 
as though one had neither heart nor soul.” 

He covered his eyes with his hands; all the 
while, however, closely spying between his fingers 
at the expression of Cecilia’s countenance, which 
ever more and more spoke out her astonish- 
ment. 

“Poor Thys!” at last she replied, in a tone of 
commiseration; “why didn’t you tell me all this 
sooner ? Then I should never have felt so unjustly 
toward you.” 

“And now — now that you know it, Cecilia,” 
he pursued, taking away his hand from before 
his face, and throwing into it the most imploring 
expression of which it was capable, “will you 
still hate me now?” 

“I have never hated you, Thys,” answered 
Cecilia; “if I had, how should I be pleased at 
the friendliness you now show ? I would gladly, 
I am sure, regard you as a brother, and hence- 
forth I will always treat you like one.” 

“You won’t be afraid of me any more, 
then?” 


THE MISER. 


53 


“ "Why should I, if you are good-hearted and 
kind ?” 

A pause in the conversation ensued. It was 
evident, from the unsettled wandering of his eyes, 
that Thys was anxiously debating something in 
his mind. At last he raised his head, and said, 
with an air of indifference, — 

“ Cecilia, I have something to tell you that 
will perhaps astonish you. But don’t let it trouble 
you; it’s only a project, and may never come to 
any thing.” 

“ Oh, well, then, I’ll try and not be frightened 
about that,” answered Cecilia, with a smile; “so 
let me hear it, Thys!” 

“Uncle Jan wants you and me to be married 
together.” 

“How? What’s that you say?” cried the 
maiden, in an agony of affright. 

“I for my part have told him it couldn’t he,” 
he pursued. 

“Good heavens! what an idea!” ejaculated 
Cecilia, still quite beside herself. 

“I told him it couldn’t he,” repeated Thys, his 
eyes intently fixed upon his intended prey. 

“And he gave up the thought; didn’t he, 
Thys?” she rejoined, in an imploring tone. 

“JSTo indeed ! For all I can do to talk him out 
of it, he obstinately holds fast to it, and won’t let 
it go.” 

“ Oh me ! oh me !” sobbed the poor girl, with 
her apron at her eyes, and vainly endeavoring to 
6 * 


54 


THE MISER. 


conceal lier tears, while Thys looked on with 
a fiendish smile, till, suddenly rising from her 
seat, — 

“Where is my uncle?” she exclaimed. 

“You know well enough,” was the answer, 
“ that he is up-stairs ; and if you call him down 
or disturb him he’ll he out of humor for the 
whole day.” 

Cecilia sat down again; then, in a tone of 
mingled despair and supplication, she resumed, — 

“Oh, Thys, dear Thys! do hut get this thought 
out of his head!” 

“Let us talk the matter over coolly, Cecilia. 
Perhaps we shall find some way that may satisfy 
us all.” 

“Ah yes!” sighed the maiden. “Help me, 
Thys ! I mil he grateful to you my life long.” 

“Look you now, Cecilia; before you go to give 
yourself up to grief and sorrow and to accuse 
our good Uncle Jan of caprice and tyranny, it 
is necessary you should know something of his 
reasons; and perhaps then you’ll find that you 
have reason to be grateful to him, after all. 
Uncle Jan thinks that he hasn’t much longer 
to live, and for my part I believe that he’s right. 
Well, his greatest trouble is the fear of having 
to leave you behind alone and unprotected in 
the world ; and nothing but seeing you once for 
all married will set him at ease on this point.” 

“But, Thys, I don’t wish to marry, — at all 
events, at present; I am much too young yet.” 


THE MISER. 


55 


“So I said to him; and that was one of the 
reasons for which I refused when first he spoke 
of it.” 

“Oh, heavens! you’ve never changed your 
mind, then ? Don’t say so !” she cried, in terror. 

.“Well, I don’t quite know how to answer that 
myself,” was the reply, “since that a doubt has 
risen in my mind as to what my duty really is ; 
— what it is, in fact, that in generosity and right 
reason I ought to do. First, you must consider, 
Cecilia, that your uncle has now been nursing 
this project in his mind for months past, till it 
has thoroughly taken root among his thoughts. 
You know him: if he can’t carry it out he’ll 
surely fall ill with vexation, and very likely die ; 
and then, Cecilia, we should be the cause of 
his death.” 

“Oh God! oh God!” cried the poor girl, rais- 
ing her eyes to heaven. 

“Would you wish to he the cause of his death, 
Cecilia?” pursued Thys, inexorably. 

“Oh, no, no!” she cried, covering her face with 
her hands and again bursting into tears. 

“ Then you would he willing to marry me, not 
to shorten his life?” 

“But, Thys, you have always refused,” she still 
objected. 

“I have indeed refused,” he replied; “hut, 
when Uncle Jan in an agony of despair actually 
went on his knees to implore of me to complete 
all I had done for him by this one last and great- 


56 


THE MISER. 


est obligation, — when he told me that he should 
die of vexation and disappointment if I persisted 
in refusing, — then I could not help giving ear to 
my compassion and affection for him.” 

“ What ! did you consent, then, after all ?” 

“ I can’t he the death of him ! And you, Ce- 
cilia?” 

“ Neither will I!” cried the maiden, in a voice 
broken by sobs. “But I will get this cruel 
thought out of his head. He will never be able 
to resist my prayers, my tears.” 

“ Don’t hope that, Cecilia. When have you 
ever known him give up any thing he had once 
set his mind on? Well, now, if he presses this 
upon you? if he tells you himself that your re- 
fusal will be the death of him?” 

u Ah me! I should obey him,” she sighed 
out, her tears flowing copiously all the while. 
And she bowed her head, and went on sobbing 
and weeping, with her apron at her eyes. 

A gleam of satisfaction passed across Thys’s 
countenance. He had reckoned on a more ener- 
getic resistance, and regarded the chief diffi- 
culty as now overcome. What had at first 
seemed impossible, even to himself, was now 
become possible. Even Cecilia’s tears, so little 
flattering to himself or of good omen for his pro- 
jects, failed to disturb him in his triumph. Hay, 
so elated was he with victory that he actually 
laid aside his hypocrisy, and proceeded to exhibit 
himself in his own true character. Perhaps he 


THE MISER. 


57 


thought it needless any longer to wear the 
mask ; perhaps he thought to follow up his suc- 
cess, and assure his conquest by presenting to 
Cecilia’s mind motives such as might in his 
view secure her willing acquiescence. Although, 
therefore, she never once looked up at him, he 
went on to open his heart to her in a tone of 
positive enthusiasm : — 

“ You are quite wrong in being so sad about 
it, Cecilia. I’ll venture to say we shall be as 
happy a pair of mortals as can be found. You 
will have handsome clothes, live in a fine house, 
ride in your carriage, sit in the chancel at church, 
and, in fact, live and be treated in every way 
like a lady of rank. We will keep a capital 
table, with every thing of the best, have plenty 
of servants, and nothing to think of but good 
eating and drinking. You don’t believe me, 
my good Cecilia? why, old Uncle Jan is as rich 
as a Jew! With grubbing and scraping, and 
heaven knows how, he has got together thou- 
sands upon thousands of guilders. That’s why 
he bolts and bars all the doors so close when 
he is up-stairs ; he goes up there to gloat over 
his money-bags.” 

Here he noticed a strange shudder running 
through his listener’s whole body. 

“ I see by your movements, Cecilia, what you 
would say,” he proceeded; “you would reproach 
me for encouraging him in his avarice. But 
don’t you understand, then, that all the while 


58 


THE MISER. 


I’m saving for myself and yon? The more he 
scrapes and stints the more there will he for 
you and me. Perhaps you may say that I am 
not one of the family, and so it is no affair of 
mine how much he leaves. So it may seem; 
but that’s not the way it is, for all that. Uncle 
Jan has left me the half of all he has, and the 
other half you will get, as a matter of course. 
Just see, Cecilia; then you and I will have 
all that the old man leaves to our two selves! 
Fine times for us then; we shall he Your 
honor and My lady, and need deny ourselves no- 
thing !” 

Doubtless he took the maiden’s silence for 
consent; for the tone of his voice grew more 
and more jeeringly triumphant as he went on : — 

“And we sha’n’t have much longer to wait, 
Cecilia. You may hear yourself how every day 
the old man croaks and groans more and more ; 
his lungs are quite gone. And we’ll get a will 
out of him that shall leave every thing to us 
two. Then all will go smooth and straight- 
forward. And thus, when he’s dead — we can’t 
help that, you know, — the Lord he gracious to 
his soul ! — why, then we shall have all the money ; 
and we’ll let the world see whether we know 
how to live oj>not.” 

Again, and still more violently, the maiden 
shuddered at his words of mockery. He was 
silent for a while, and seemed to be expecting 
an answer from her. As, however, she did not 


THE MISER. 


59 


speak, and still retained the same attitude, he 
at last began again, — 

“ Well, Cecilia, are you still crying?’’ 

She rose slowly from her seat, took two or 
three steps backward, threw her head into an 
attitude of proud defiance, and cast upon Thys 
a look of such intense contempt that he sprang 
to his feet all in astonishment. Nevertheless, 
he still felt uncertain how to interpret her look 
and gesture, for the expression of her counte- 
nance showed rather a sort of satisfaction than 
any thing of sorrow. 

“Well, well, what say you?” he asked at last, 
with anxious impatience. 

“False villain!” cried the maiden, with an ac- 
cent of the extremest contempt. 

“How? What do you mean?” replied Thys, 
in great astonishment. 

“ I he your wife,” she went on, with an air 
of spirit and dignity, “and help you in turning 
my poor old uncle to scorn even after his death, 
and in robbing widows and orphans of their 
share of his inheritance ? Had I no choice hut 
between that and being buried alive on the very 
brink of the grave, I would still say, ‘No !’ ” 

Thys looked upon the maiden in speechless 
consternation, who on her part so proudly con- 
fronted him that his eyes fell, unable to sustain 
her indignant glance. 

“You thought that I was crying under my 
apron all the while,” she went on. “But that 


60 


THE MISER. 


was not so. I saw your heart open, and I was 
heartily thanking God that he had turned it to 
open itself to me. Now I know you.” 

Yet a moment longer lasted the deceiver’s 
confusion and silence. Once satisfied, however, 
that what he had just heard was Cecilia’s real 
mind and final resolve, he speedily recovered him- 
self; a malignant smile distorted his countenance. 

“Ho, ho! that is the way you take it!” he 
said. “We’ll soon see how that will end; I’ll 
find the way to make you hear reason : trust me 
for that ! You know me, say you ? you’re mis- 
taken there ! you don’t half know me yet ! 
There’s more in me by a great deal than you 
think for. You shall come and ask pardon of 
me on your knees before I’ve done with you.” 

“That day you will never see, Thys !” she 
calmly replied. 

“ Never ? You make me laugh. Isn’t all you’ll 
ever have in my hands, so to say? I can strip 
you of every penny of it.” 

“Take it!” she answered. 

“Your uncle shall turn you out of doors !” 

“ So be it!” 

“ He shall curse you on his death-bed !” 

This terrible threat broke the maiden’s courage. 
Silent and depressed, she bowed her head. 

“ Ha, ha ! your courage begins to fail you, does 
it? Where’s your pride and obstinacy now?” 
pursued Thys, jeeringly. “But I'll touch you in 
a still tenderer place. D’ye think I don’t know 


THE MISER. 


61 


why it is you’re so set against me? There’s a 
lad that you’d marry without so many tears 
about it, I take it; eh? There’s the son of the 
widow at the Chapel farm, — a line harum-scarum 
fellow he is, and a capital customer at the ale- 
house : — he’s the one you’d like to have, isn’t he ? 
Very well, you shall have him. Yes, you shall 
have him, and then you may go begging together. 
I know you ; you’ll go through a great deal and 
bear a great deal to have your own way against me. 
I know that well enough ; I know that that meek- 
looking phiz of yours has a stiff neck under it. 
But I’ll not take my revenge on you alone. I’ll 
find means to make the cause of your obstinacy 
feel it too. I’ll hunt down Bart and his mother ; 
they shall know what my hatred is and what it 
can do: I’ll bring them to poverty, and not let 
them go till I see them lying upon straw. And 
whose fault will that be, then? Yours — only 
yours !” 

These cruel menaces had quite crushed Cecilia. 
She leaned her head against the chimney-piece, 
and seemed immersed in unfathomable wo, 
while Thys’s countenance beamed with savage 
joy. Something there was in his eyes at once 
so mean and so malignant that one might have 
deemed to behold in him a serpent which has 
fascinated its prey with its poisoned look and 
takes pleasure in making it suffer all the agonies 
of a thousand deaths before seizing and swal- 
lowing it. 

6 E 


62 


THE MISER. 


“ Within a quarter of an hour Uncle Jan will 
come down/’ he went on; “so, for the last time 
I warn you, think it well over before it is too 
late, whether you will have war or peace with 
me ; — whether you will be rich and happy, or go 
out to service, and, likely enough, come to beg- 
gary. A quarter of an hour is soon gone.” 

Cecilia raised her head, and answered, weeping 
as she spoke, — 

“I shall have my say too, and will tell my 
uncle all. He shall know your falsehood. He 
has a good heart, and will be amazed and terri- 
fied at so much wickedness.” 

“As you please,” interrupted Thys, with a 
sarcastic smile. “Tell him of all my falsehood, 
as you’re pleased to call it; repeat word for 
word all I’ve said to you; he’ll not believe a 
syllable of it. He has a good heart, you say. 
Just so; and for that reason I’ll make him do 
whatever I please. Accuse me as much as you 
will; the more the better.” 

In uttering these last words, Thys had gradually 
sunk his voice, so that Cecilia, who had again 
leaned her head against the chimney-piece, had 
but half heard the latter part of what he said. 
And in the mean while the hypocrite had stealth- 
ily and on tiptoe approached a side door, through 
which he now left the room, carefully and noise- 
lessly making it fast behind him on the other side. 
A moment afterward Cecilia heard his voice in 
the inner part of the house, calling, — 


THE MISER. 


63 


“Uncle Jan ! Uncle Jan !” 

She sprang to her feet in consternation. 

“ Heavens!” she exclaimed, as, with terror on 
her countenance, she looked round the room; 
“he’s gone to my uncle, to he beforehand with 
me and tell his story first !” 

In an agony she ran to the side door and 
essayed to open it. A cry of despair broke from 
her as she found by its resistance that Thys had 
shot the bolt on the other side. 

“Alas!” she exclaimed; “he will never believe 
me ! my only hope is gone ! What am I to do ? 
0 God, take pity on me !” 

She fell back upon a seat; her eyes wandered 
vacantly; she was in a very trance of distress 
and affright. From time to time she trembled 
violently as overhead she heard the flooring of 
the chamber above creak under the footsteps of 
Thys and her uncle. She was not left long in 
her anxiety, however; the door soon opened, and 
the two entered the room together. 

The aspect of the old man’s countenance was 
sad and severe ; that of Thys, on the other hand, 
had assumed a hypocritical expression of sim- 
plicity. Slowly and with an air of indifference 
the latter walked up to the fireplace and took 
his seat beside the hearth. Her uncle also drew 
a chair for himself, took up his position not far 
from his w r eeping niece, and, in a tone of deep 
vexation and annoyance, addressed himself at 
once to her : — 


64 


THE MISER. 


“Oh, Cecilia, I never could have believed that 
you would be so ungrateful; and I can’t believe 
it even now ! What I desire to do is all for your 
good. It is purely out of love for you that I 
have had the thought and desire of marrying 
you to a man whose carefulness and good hus- 
bandry would he an assurance to me against 
your coming to poverty after my death. And 
you refuse ?” 

She sobbed more violently than ever, and made 
no answer. In a gentler tone, he went on : — 

“Come, Cecilia, my child, the mischiefs not 
done yet. I know that you will consent, after 
all, to please your poor old sick uncle; won’t 
you? And all that you said to Thys was mere 
idle words; wasn’t it? — words spoken in haste, 
and not from your heart? Come now, Cecilia, 
give your consent, I beg of you. Say you’ll have 
our good Thys here; I’m sure he will make 
you happy.” 

She stood up, pale with anxious fear. A ner- 
vous twitching distorted her cheeks. As though 
beside herself, she cried, — 

“Have him? — him? — that serpent?” 

“Oh heavens! what have I done to her?” 
sadly and sorrowfully sighed out Thys. “You 
must see, Uncle Jan, that there’s nothing to be 
done for it. Do pray leave her alone; I wouldn’t 
for the world be the cause of trouble to her.” 

“False hypocrite !” murmured the maiden, with 
a glance of deepest ^corn at her persecutor. 


THE MISER. 


65 


The old man meanwhile looked from the one. 
to the other of his two companions with asto- 
nished eyes, as though surprised by some wholly 
unexpected phenomonen. And in fact the maiden, 
whom hitherto he had only known as a very 
lamb for patient endurance, stood then before him 
with flashing eyes and a tone of determined 
resolution in her voice ; — a tone which spoke out 
the vehement disgust of her indignant spirit at 
the sneaking and dastardly wickedness of her 
enemy, but which made a far from favorable 
impression on her uncle’s mind. He was silent; 
but two tears trickled down his cheeks. 

“ Alas ! alas ! there is nothing but deceit and 
false seeming in the world!” he said; “so it is 
with every thing, — with Cecilia’s heart too. Child ! 
child ! so you’ve only been dissembling all these 
many years ? Ah me ! this will shorten my 
life.” 

This cruel reproach quite broke the poor girl’s 
spirit. She threw herself upon her knees before 
her uncle, and, bedewing his hands with tears, 
exclaimed, — 

“Oh, my dear uncle, you whom I love and 
respect as a second father, do not believe him; 
he is a very devil for falsehood ! He has no regard 
for you; it is all a sham and hypocrisy, while in 
his heart — ay, and sometimes in his words too — 
he gibes at you and makes mock of you. Your 
money is all he wants, and he wishes you dead. 
It is but a few moments since he was speaking 
6 * 


66 


THE MISER. 


of you in a way that frightened me. For God’s 
sake, believe him not; he is your worst enemy!” 

The old man’s amazement waxed more and 
more ; but it was quite at cross-purposes that Ceci- 
lia’s words affected him. He raised her from the 
ground, but at the same time with his hand mo- 
tioned her from him. Then, sorrowfully shaking 
his head, he looked inquiringly at Thys. 

“Don’t he too much vexed with her, Uncle Jan,” 
responded the hypocrite. “ You were young once 
yourself, and perhaps have been in love yourself 
too. At all events, you know well enough how 
interested people often turn such foolishness to 
account and lead a young heart astray by exciting 
its passions. But let’s say no more about it at 
present ; poor Cecilia is misled, and deserves rather 
pity than anger.” 

This insult and her uncle’s injustice once more 
roused Cecilia out of her depression. 

“ Oh, it is too much !” she indignantly exclaimed. 
“ Pity from you ! I will have none of it ; it’s a 
mockery and an insult. What ! weren’t you with- 
in these few moments triumphing in the expecta- 
tion that Uncle Jan could not live much longer?” 

“What I said,” replied Thys, “was to beg of 
you not to shorten the few years that he might yet 
have to live by setting yourself against bis wishes.” 

“Falsehood! falsehood!” cried the maiden. 
“Didn’t you jeer and sneer at my uncle?— at the 
old miser, as you called him? Didn’t you seek to 
draw me into an abominable plot with you to get 


TUB MISER. 


67 


all my uncle’s property for ourselves, and after his 
death to squander it in luxury and extravagance ? 
And didn’t you, to tempt me, tell me that he had 
thousands upon thousands of guilders hoarded up ?” 

“How? What villanous calumnies are those? 
It is surely the devil that puts such thoughts into 
your mind, wretched child !” here broke in her 
uncle, at the same time clasping his hands over 
his head in a kind of desperation. “ I have no- 
thing! — nothing whatever!” 

“Why will you thus distort my words, Cecilia?” 
added Thys, in a plaintive tone. “It is useless to 
heap sins upon your soul in this way ; Uncle Jan 
will never believe you. I told you that the widow 
at the Chapel farm has got it into her head that it 
is so. It’s too bad to put off other people’s evil 
thoughts upon me.” 

The old man began to cough, — the usual sign of 
w T eariness with him ; at the same time his dim 
eyes fired up with irritation, and it was evident 
from his countenance that he was upon the point 
of pronouncing some extreme and hasty deter- 
mination ; but Thys, stretching forth his hands in 
a supplicatory attitude, and as though to check 
him, interposed. 

“Come, Uncle Jan,” he said, “let things take 
their course, and don’t put yourself out about them. 
Cecilia seems determined that you sha’n’t have 
your will in this matter. Very well; let her take 
her own way, then, and marry Bart : it is she that 
will suffer the most by it, after all.” 


68 


THE MISER. 


“Hold your tongue!” cried the old man, an- 
grily; “what! are you, too, going to take their 
part now ? Cecilia, if you have neither sense nor 
reason I must think for you and put my experience 
in the place of your weakness and folly. How 
listen to me. I ask you for the last time, will you 
marry Thys or not ? Tears are no answer. Speak ! 
you have a tongue in your head !” 

“Ah, dear uncle,” the maiden sighed out with 
uplifted hands ; “ ah ! do you know what you’re 
doing?” 

“Answer me: will you have Thys?” 

“If I was taken to church with him by force,” 
she replied, with all her energy, “I’d hold my 
breath and stifle myself before I got there.” 

“Fie, fie! what sinful words are those?” cried 
her uncle, astonished at her vehemence. “ What 
is there in Thys to set you so against him, more 
than any other man ?’ 

“A man! He a man?” she retorted, with de- 
lirious energy; “he is the very devil himself! the 
devil of falsehood and rapacity!” 

“Cecilia, unhappy girl!” sighed Thys, “I for- 
give you ! May God forgive you those wicked 
words as I do !” 

“Well, then,” pursued her uncle, “you will not 
have him ?” 

“Hever!” was her firm reply. “ I will go 
through any thing rather ; I would die the cruellest 
death ; be pointed at with scorn by all the world. 
Ho, never, never!” 


THE MISER. 


09 


The old man rose from his seat, and, in a tone 
of fixed resolve, — 

“So be it!” he said; “you shall he treated as 
your ingratitude deserves. This afternoon you 
shall go to the Chapel farm and fetch away what- 
ever you have there that belongs to you. You 
may stay there just five minutes, and if from that 
time forth you ever again speak to any of those 
bad people, even if you meet them by accident, or 
make any sign to them, or even look at them, 
then ” 

A renewed fit of coughing here interrupted the 
old man and broke off his words ; evidently what 
he was about to say pained him : he seemed glad 
of an excuse for delaying its utterance. Thys 
meanwdiile cast a look of jeering triumph at the 
poor girl, who had again fallen back upon her 
chair and was now weeping bitterly. Again the 
old man essayed to speak as soon as he had re- 
covered his breath. 

“ Then I will — ah me ! I cannot get it over my 
lips ! Child ! child ! if you did but know the suf- 
fering you’re causing me !” 

The plaintive tone in which these last words 
were spoken touched Cecilia to the very heart. 
She rose from her seat, threw herself upon her 
knees before the old man’s feet, and seized his 
hand, which she kissed again and again, while she 
exclaimed, — 

“Oh, uncle, I do indeed love you! love you as 
dearly as ever ; gladly would I give all the days I 


70 


THE MISER. 


have yet to live to lengthen out yours, if God 
would grant my prayer! Ah, have pity, have 
compassion on me ; and if I have ever said or 
done any thing to grieve or trouble you, then give 
me your forgiveness, for God’s sake.” 

A smile of gladness lighted up the old man’s 
countenance. Probably he was deceiving himself 
as to the intention of the maiden’s words and 
gesture, for in a gentler voice he said, — 

“ For every fault there is forgiveness, Cecilia. I 
knew well that your heart could never have been 
so changed all in a moment. Let us forget all this, 
my child ; the wisest of us goes astray sometimes. 
Ah, God be thanked that I now have my own good 
Cecilia back again !” 

With these words he raised her from the ground, 
making at the same time a movement as though 
to bestow on her the kiss of reconciliation; but 
the look of anxious inquiry with which she met 
his eye threw him back into doubts and fears. 
Hesitatingly he added,— 

“ Well, I thought you had consented !” 

Trembling spasmodically in every limb, she 
threw back her head, lifted her hands on high, and 
hastily ran off into the inner chamber, crying, as 
she went, — 

“ He is under a spell ! God has forsaken me !” 

Thys meanwhile had left his seat ; he now drew 
near to the old man and took him by the arm. 

“Come along, Uncle Jan,” he said, “you’ll only 
make yourself ill. There’s nothing to be done for 


THE MISER. 


n 


it at present. Wait a little, and let Cecilia think 
over it when she’s calmer; after all, perhaps, 
things will turn out better than we think.” 

And with these words he led him off, coughing 
violently as he went, into another room, and closed 
the door behind them. As for Cecilia, she stood 
motionless, with her head leaning against the wall ; 
motionless hut for the heaving of her bosom, 
shaken by hitter sobs. 


72 


THE MISER. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The next afternoon the snn stood no less fair in 
the heavens, only already deeply declining toward 
the west, and therefore with diminished power in 
his beams. The snow, deprived of his enlivening 
fire, lay dull and monotonous ; already had the 
birds that hear the winter best sought shelter from 
the approaching cold of night; a grim stillness 
reigned over the sleeping face of nature. 

And at the Chapel farm, too, not a sound was to 
be heard — neither of human voices nor of human 
labor. Had it not been for the occasional lowing 
of the cow from within her stable, one might have 
deemed that no living being inhabited the place. 

Within the house Wanna sat at her spinning- 
wheel beside the hearth, on which a great kettle 
of food was cooking for the cow. Assuredly some 
all-engrossing thought occupied her mind, for again 
and again the thread broke between her fingers, 
and often she would set her foot beside the treadle 
and work away energetically, the wheel all the 
while standing still. Her eye was fixed upon the 
face of the clock ; she seemed to count each tick 
of the pendulum, and ever and anon cast a look 
of reproach upon the lazy hands, as though it 


THE MISER. 


73 


was their fault that the time did not pass more 
briskly. 

Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by 
the great kettle boiling over, with an effusion of 
water which had wellnigh extinguished the fire. 

“Why, Wanna, what are you about?” cried 
Mother Ann, who at the sound came running up 
out of the stable. “ You’ll soon let the water boil 
over upon yourself without feeling it. Why, 
girl ! why, girl ! since the last fair you’ve turned 
so dreamy that I don’t know what to make of 
you!” 

Wanna cast down her eyes in much embarrass- 
ment, and, evading direct reply, hastily answered, — 

“ Come, mother, come ; let’s be quick and take 
the kettle into the stable, and then I’ll run down 
to the village for the green thread that Cecilia 
asked me to get for her; I shall be back directly.” 

“ If Cecilia asked you, go : but do make haste, 
child ; it’s getting quite late.” 

While these few words were passing, mother 
and daughter together had carried the kettle into 
the stable. Soon Wanna returned alone. Her first 
look was at the clock ; instantly, with brightened 
countenance and a suppressed cry of joy, she darted 
to the door, and was soon at some distance from 
the cottage. How at last, after having once or 
twice looked back to assure herself of being out 
of sight and hearing, she ventured to vent her 
feelings in a merry laugh. 

“Ha, ha !” she cried; “ how mother will stare ! 

7 


74 


THE MISER. 


She’ll know then how it was I let the kettle boil 
over.” 

And again she started off in a run, bounding 
along so that the snow flew up from under her 
feet. She had not yet reached the village, when 
from behind a plantation of fir she heard the 
brisk neighing of a horse. 

“ Ila ! there they are!” she cried, exultingly. 
“ Our Bles is pleased to get home again. If she 
knew what she’s bringing with her, I believe, poor 
beast, she’d be off in a gallop.” 

It was not long before her brother and his 
cart turned the corner of the plantation and made 
their appearance in the road ; and immediately off 
Wanna set again, running at a still greater rate 
than before, calling at the same time at the top of 
her voice, though still far out of hearing, — 

“ Bart, Bart, have you got it? Have you got 
the neckerchief?” 

But though Bart could not hear, he certainly un- 
derstood, for he stood erect in the cart and threw 
up his cap high in air, — not very dexterously, how- 
ever, for it fell on the road instead of in the 
vehicle, which obliged him to pull up and get out 
to recover it. Before he bad remounted, his sister 
came up to him, hot with haste. 

“Well, Bart, have you got the neckerchief?” 
was still her cry. 

“Wantje, Wantje,” he answered, with a burst 
of gladness, “ there’s nothing like my luck ! Only 
just think ! — the gentleman — he’s a sugar-baker — ■ 


THE MISER. 75 

that takes my hoops of me, asked me what made 
me look so happy when he paid me.” 

“Yes; but, Bart,” interrupted his sister, with a 
gesture of impatience, “ have you got the necker- 
chief?” 

“ To-be-sure I’ve got the neckerchief. But just 
listen,” he continued; “I told this gentleman how 
it was mother’s fete-day, and about the present I 
meant to make her.” 

“Let me see it, Bart ! Oh, do j ust let me see it ! ” 

“ And the gentleman, Wanna, what do you think 
he did ? He said that he would make my mother 
a present too.” 

“Did he, indeed? Well, that was kind of him !” 

“ Yes ; and he has given me plenty of work for 
all the rest of the winter.” 

“And was that the present he made mother?” 

“ Oh, no, Wantje ! he put a bright new five-franc 
piece in my hand, and told me to put that to the 
price of the neckerchief, that I might get an out- 
and-out handsome one.” 

“ Five francs ! And how much does the necker- 
chief cost, then ?” 

“Eight francs and a half, Wan tie ! Eight francs 
and a half!” 

“Mercy upon us ! Why, Bart dear, it would keep 
us three for a whole month ! Oh, do let me see it !” 

“You shall see it. But first I must tell you 
something else. After that, the gentleman took 
me into his house, to a room where ever so many 
copper pots were standing, just as it might be so 


76 


THE MISER. 


many milk-pails ; I should think there must have 
been a thousand of them. And all these pots were 
full of sugar.” 

“ A thousand pails full of sugar!” cried Wanna, 
lifting up her hands and eyes. “ I suppose you’re 
telling me the truth,* Bart; but who in the world is 
to eat all that?” 

“The rich people, to-be-sure, Wanna. Besides, 
just think how big the world is! Well, but, 
Wanna, the best’s to come; he gave me five or 
six great packets of sugar-candy for mother, of all 
sorts of colors — white, yellow, red, brown, black; 
in fact, I don’t know how many different colors !” 

“ Black ?” 

“ Yes, there’s some coal-black ; mother will 
never know what it is. What a laugh we shall 
have ! But come, our Bles will be catching cold. 
I’ll show you the neckerchief, though ; but take 
care, don’t tumble it; and just let me see your 
hands, Wantje.” 

“ Oh, they are quite clean ! I’ve only just come 
from washing turnips.” 

And now Bart climbed up into the cart again to 
get the neckerchief, muttering all the while his 
apologies for the jealous vigilance of his precau- 
tionary measures. 

“ It’s only, you see, Wanna dear, because really 
things of this kind oughtn’t to be touched without 
gloves. Eight francs and a half!” 

He came down again out of the cart with a paper 
parcel in his hand, which he carried and handled 


THE MISER. 


77 


with, an air of much mystery, taking up his sta- 
tion beside the shaft, while he carefully and deli- 
berately undid the string with which it was tied. 
Wanna hung over it the while, her large eyes 
sparkling with curiosity, and her whole counte- 
nance beaming with a smile of gladsome expecta- 
tion. At last the neckerchief came to view. With 
speechless astonishment the maiden surveyed it as 
it lay there upon the outspread paper. 

“Well, Wanna, what say you to it?” at last in- 
quired her brother. 

For a while she was quite unable to come to 
utterance; then, all at once jumping about and 
clapping her hands, she broke into passionate ex- 
clamations of delight. Her example soon set Bart 
going too ; and there they both were, in their in- 
nocent joy, dancing about upon the snow like a 
couple of children, while Bles turned her head 
right round, as though to inquire what might be 
going on. 

“How beautiful ! heavens, how beautiful !” cried 
Wanna, at last recovering herself sufficiently for 
articulation. “ Oh, how pleased mother will be ! 
All red and blue and yellow ! Why, it’s enough 
to blind one !” 

Meanwhile Bart sang, with a clear, ringing voice 
which might have been heard on the other side of 
the plantation, — 

“ Down with care, and away with sorrow ! 

Our feast’s to-day ; never mind to-morrow l” 


7 * 


F 


78 


THE MISER. 


And then followed, in endless repetition, — 

“ Oh, Wantje, Wantje !” and “Oh, Bart, Bart!” 

Yet even endless repetitions must have an end. 

“ Come along! jump up!” cried Bart, at last. 

“Directly, and then we’ll make Bles go a bit!” 

“No, no, Wantje, we must take our time, that 
we may consider well how we will manage it all.” 

And now the brother and sister mounted to- 
gether upon the cart, and the horse went on. 

“And have you the flowers too ?” presently in- 
quired the maiden, looking round the cart. 

“ They’re under the seat, in the basket with the 
stone bottle of beer,” answered Bart. “I was 
going to forget that I had a message for you 
from Frank.” 

“A message for me from Frank!” exclaimed 
Wanna, blushing to the tips of her ears, wdiile 
Bart opened the basket and produced a bunch of 
very small flowers. 

“ See,” he said; “Frank asked me to give you 
these from him.” 

“What shall I do with them?” she asked, ab- 
stractedly. 

“Yes, but, Wanna, do you know what these 
flowers are called?” the brother went on. “I 
didn’t know myself till Frank told me. ’Tis such 
a pretty name !” 

“ What is it, then ?” 

“They’re called forget-me-nots.” 

Here the maiden abruptly turned her back upon 
her brother to hide the crimson blush with which 


THE MISER. 79 

her whole face glowed. He laughed a while in his 
sleeve, and then resumed : — 

“ Wantje, is Cecilia with mother ?” 

“ She has not been at our house to-day,” was 
the reply. “I went over to the Abbey farm to 
see if any thing was the matter ; but I could see 
nobody but that Thys, and he fell upon me as 
though I had come to steal something.” 

“And isn’t Cecilia coming, then ?” 

“Yes, she’ll come; she’ll come toward evening, 
Thys said ; but with such a smile ! he looked just 
like a dog that’s going to bite.” 

“Ah, well, that doesn’t much matter, so she only 
comes ; and then mother can see her home, if she 
does stay a little late. Come, Wanna, sit here 
by me; let’s talk it over now how we are to 
manage it.” 

And now began a conversation which went 
briskly on, with many a gesture of delight and 
many a joyful exclamation on Wanna’s part, but 
m so carefully-confidential a wdiisper that no word 
could have reached the ear of a passer-by. 

At their own door, Wanna sprang from the cart 
and immediately entered the house ; while Bart 
took out the horse and led it away to the stable, 
whither he also smuggled in his parcel and basket 
with much precaution and stratagem, which ef- 
fected, he presently joined his mother and sister. 

“ Ah, good-day, mother !” he cried, as he entered 
the room ; “ here, take hold ; I’ve a nice bit of 
money for you again.” 


80 


THE MISER. 


And, while depositing some pieces of coin in her 
hand, he cast a summary glance round, the result 
of w T hich, however, did not seem satisfactory, for 
his countenance instantly darkened and his fea- 
tures relaxed from their animation. 

“Now, I dare say you think,” observed his 
mother, “ that I’m going to keep hack your pocket- 
money from you for the bit of dinner that we gave 
Jan mason’s widow and her children. No, Bart, 
my lad, you must have your glass of beer on 
Sundays as usual, and you deserve it well too.” 

Bart carelessly received the few pence w r hich his 
mother returned him ; and, as she proceeded into 
her bedroom to put away the money he had given 
her, went up to his sister, and, in a tone of deep 
discouragement, — 

“ Cecilia is not here !” he said. 

“No, and she’ll hardly come now,” replied 
Wanna; “in another half-hour it will be dark. 
Well, we can tell her about it to-morrow. Come, 
go you up-stairs now, and keep mother in chat 
a while, as we said.” 

“ Hadn’t we better wait a little ?” inquired Bart. 

“Wait! Then we shall never get mother out 
of her bedroom again.” 

“Well, that’s true enough. And yet I should 
have been so glad for Cecilia to be here. Well, 
then, look sharp, Wanna, and when all’s ready 
give a knock with the blowpipe against the 
tongs.” 

In all haste, Wanna ran off to the stable, fetched 


THE MISER. 


81 


in the basket, set five or six plates on the table, 
into which she emptied the packets of sugar-candy, 
laid the beautiful new neckerchief half unfolded 
beside them, tied the flowers on to the stone bottle, 
and set three coffee-cups to drink out of ; for glasses 
there were none in the house. Her arrangements 
accomplished, she raised such a clatter with tongs 
and blowpipe that her mother called out from 
above, — 

“ Take care down there ! what are you about ? 
Don’t be breaking any thing !” 

And almost in the same moment Bart came 
shouting down-stairs, his mother hastily following 
him. 

It was a comic and yet touching spectacle which 
the good woman exhibited as her eyes fell upon 
the table laid out as has been described, and 
thence wandered in astonishment to the merry 
countenances of her children, from whom they 
silently demanded an explanation of the unlooked- 
for glories before them. 

“Long live Johanna! Long live Johanna!” 
cried Bart and his sister together, as in the exu- 
berant delight of youth they flew upon their old 
mother, cast their arms about her neck both at 
once, and almost stifled her with kisses. 

But now again Bart releases her from his em- 
brace, seizes the new neckerchief, throws it over 
her shoulders, springs to the wall, whence he takes 
a little mirror, and, holding it up to her, exclaims,— 

“ See, mother, see ! that’s your saint’s-day pre- 


82 


THE MISER. 


sent ! now you won’t have to go to church in that 
miserable old thing any more.” 

At last she became aware what it was that her 
children’s burst of joy signified. Her emotion was 
too much for her. Hot a word could she utter, but 
gazed on the neckerchief in mute astonishment. 
At last a tear rolled down her cheek; she drew 
both her children to her bosom, and, kissing first 
one and then the other, — 

“ Oh, how good God is !” she exclaimed, in a 
stifled voice. 

And now, while she still held her daughter in 
her arms, Bart hastened again to the table, filled 
the three cups with beer, and, with an expression 
at once of tenderness and solemnity, — 

“Mother dear,” he said, “here’s to your good 
health ! And may we long live together in love 
and well-doing ! And may I keep my health to 
work for my good mother ! And God grant us all 
his blessing, both here on earth and hereafter in 
heaven ! Long live Johanna !” 

But, just as he was about to put the cup to his 
lips he was suddenly interrupted by his sister’s ex- 
clamations, who ran out of the room, crying, as she 
went, — 

“Yonder is Cecilia! Ah me, there comes 
Cecilia!” 

And immediately “Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted 
Bart, hastily following her out. 

But for a single instant the mother remained 
alone, until her children again appeared upon the 


THE MISER. 


83 


door-sill, accompanied by Cecilia. But, ob heavens ! 
what a change had that little moment effected in 
them ! All their vivacity had departed ; sadness 
was on every feature, and with down-hung heads 
they walked beside their companion, in a very 
fever of anxious curiosity, and yet afraid to ques- 
tion her. Cecilia, on her part, approached the 
table without uttering a word, dropped into a 
chair, and then broke into an agony of sobs and 
tears, while the rest of the party stood looking on 
in mute astonishment and terror. It was Mother 
Ann who first approached her, took her by the 
hand, and inquired, — 

“ For heaven’s sake, Cecilia dear, what then has 
happened ? What sad misfortune ?” 

But no answer did she receive. Then, after 
waiting a while, Bart in his turn came and stood 
close by her, and in a heart-breaking tone, and 
with tears, so to say, in his voice, — 

“ Cecilia ! Cecilia !” he exclaimed. 

Whether it was that this cry, which seemed to 
burst forth from a breaking heart, struck straight 
to hers, or that the gush of tears had already some- 
what relieved her, she raised her head, and, in a 
languishing voice, — 

“Oh, my dear friends,” she said, “I can hardly 
speak for sorrow ! Let me first weep a while.” 

“Ah, Cecilia, Cecilia! do you want to kill me 
outright?” cried Bart, now quite beside himself; 
“ what is it ? For God’s sake, speak !” 

“Only think,” she sobbed out in reply, “how 


84 


THE MISER. 


unhappy I am ; this is the last time that you will 
see me here.” 

A varied series of sorrowful exclamations formed 
the response to this unexpected declaration. 

44 1 am forbidden ever to come here again,” she 
pursued, amid a flood of tears, 44 and ever to speak 
to any of you. And, alas ! I must, I must obey !” 

44 Forbidden to speak to any of us again !” ex- 
claimed the widow, astonished, not to say incredu- 
lous. 44 And why that, pray? What harm have 
we done to any one ?” 

44 Ah! don’t question me,” replied the maiden, 
imploringly; 44 1 can’t bear to tell you all.” 

At this Bart wellnigh broke forth into fury. 
He ground his teeth ; he clenched his fists. At last 
he cried, — 

4 4 Ah, yes ! I know all about it! This is another 
of that serpent Thys’s tricks ! Look you, I never 
willingly harmed man or mouse in my life yet; 
but if ever I get that pest of the village into my 
hands, and don’t wring his accursed head from his 
body, then ” 

But here his mother hastily laid her hand upon 
his mouth and broke off the flow of vengeful 
utterance. 

44 Bart,” said Cecilia, entreatingly, 44 if you have 
any friendship for me, put all such thoughts out 
of your head. It is my uncle himself that has 
forbidden me. There is nothing for it; it is my 
lot, and I must bear it.” 

4k Oh heavens ! and shall I then never see you 


THE MISER. 


85 


again ?” cried the youth, in desperation ; and, lean- 
ing his head upon the table, he hurst into a flood 
of bitter tears. 

“ Here I must never come again,” was the reply; 
“but when I sit up there at the Abbey farm whole 
days together, so lonely and desolate, all that time, 
my dear friends, yes, all of it, I shall be thinking 
of you. I never knew before how much I care 
for you all.” 

These last words only increased the universal 
grief; the whole party wept with broken hearts. 

But presently Cecilia cast an anxious look out 
of doors. Probably she then observed something 
that struck her with sharp and sudden fear, for she 
rose from her seat all trembling, and began hastily 
to collect some small matters which lay upon a 
box by her. 

“Heavens!” she exclaimed; “I was just for- 
getting myself. I only had leave to come here 
to fetch my work-things. Good-by ! good-by ! I 
must go.” 

The tone of nervous anxiety in which these 
words were spoken struck Bart not a little. He, 
too, looked outward in the same direction, and 
instantly a flash of indignation lighted up his 
eyes. 

“Look!” he exclaimed, in a voice of concen- 
trated fury, “ look ! yonder he stands in the road. 
Begone, Satan ! away with you !” 

And he was about to rush out of the house; but 
his mother cast her arms around his neck and 
8 


86 


THE MISER. 


forcibly held him back, though he bellowed like 
an infuriated bull and made the most violent 
efforts to escape from her. 

Meanwhile Cecilia had hastily taken a small 
gold cross from her bosom, and, placing it in 
Wanna’s hand, — 

“I promised mason Jan’s widow,” she said, “to 
do something for her. Now I cannot do as I 
meant ; but here is a little cross that belonged to 
my mother, (God rest her soul !) — let her sell that, 
and buy bread for her children. And now, Mother 
Ann, Bart, Wanna, my dear friends all, farewell, 
and think of me and pray for me ; pray that God 
may protect me. I shall die, die of grief and 
sorrow, waste and pine away; for ” 

Her voice choked. Sobbing, and with her hands 
before her eyes, she rushed out of the house. 

An instant afterward, and the inmates of the 
Chapel farm -sat silently weeping. The necker- 
chief lay forgotten upon a chair ; and already had 
the darkness of night descended upon the earth 
before any of them woke up from the mute de- 
pression into which sore grief had cast them one 
and all. 


THE MISER. 


87 


CHAPTER V. 

As though Cecilia had been the angel whose 
presence had brought a blessing upon the Chapel 
farm, all its joy and gladness had vanished from 
it with her. 

As for Bart, the joyous, spirited Bart, you would 
not have recognised him for the same person. 
Day after day, and all day long, he remained sunk 
in a mute reverie ; his head, bowed down with a 
perpetual sorrow, stooped forward upon his chest ; 
on his pale and lifeless countenance might be read 
sore suffering and deep despair. All his songs 
were forgotten; and, though he still went on 
working as before, yet his movements were slow 
and unsteady, as of one whose thoughts are wan- 
dering far away from what his hands are execut- 
ing. Hardly was his attention to external things 
sufficiently awake to return a short and unsatisfac- 
tory answer to his mother’s occasional attempts at 
consolation. 

And thus in less than two months’ time the 
happy, cheerful cottage had become as still, as 
lonesome-looking, and as melancholy, as the miser’s 
dismal abode. 

That which so grievously oppressed the young 


88 


THE MISER. 


man’s heart was not, however, so much the mere 
absence of Cecilia as the total ignorance in which 
he was as to her lot. Many a varied spectacle of 
terror did his imagination conjure up before him; 
he saw her pining away and weeping, he heard her 
wailing and lamenting. And even as his waking 
life, so his sleep also was full of sudden sugges- 
tions of frightful import, which tortured him with 
perpetual and wearing unrest. Especially was this 
manifest when ever and anon over his work he 
would suddenly begin violently to tremble, or 
would grind his teeth fiercely together, or, again, 
would cast up a look of anxious supplication 
toward heaven. 

And then, too, the feeling of his total inability 
to help her gnawed like a worm at his heart. Ce- 
cilia had so earnestly implored him to abstain from 
all interposition, and he had seen in her look that 
it was some secret and terrible power which coerced 
her into submission. Probably he would only 
have rendered her position still more unhappy by 
seeking vengeance upon him to whose evil in- 
fluence he attributed all this misery. This last 
consideration it was which alone restrained him 
from open hostilities against Thys, and that not 
without difficulty, for there were moments when 
the boiling blood heated his brain wellnigh to 
madness. 

From week’s end to week’s end Cecilia never 
stirred out of her uncle’s house ; not even did she 
show herself in the doorway of that sombre habita- 


THE MISER. 


89 


tion ; but every Sunday she accompanied the old 
man and Thys to church. For three successive 
Sundays had Bart taken up his station at a point 
which she had necessarily to pass on her way, and 
each time, so soon as from afar off she could discern 
him, had she cast down her eyes and passed on 
without even noticing his salutation. But if Ce- 
cilia passed him by unnoticed, her uncle on the 
other hand cast at him looks of bitterness which 
seemed to convey terrible reproaches. Thys, too, 
regarded his young enemy with a side-glance of 
the most provoking mockery, while with the most 
lover-like smile he could make up upon his counte- 
nance he held Cecilia’s arm locked in his, ostenta- 
tiously affected to whisper in her ear, and, in fact, 
altogether comported himself as though there was 
that between them that authorized something more 
than mere ordinary familiarity. 

To express how deeply this sight wounded the 
young man’s heart is quite impossible. The pale- 
ness of Cecilia’s countenance, the tears which he 
fancied he traced upon her cheeks, were more than 
sufficient to pierce his heart with unutterable an- 
guish ; and the malignant scorn of Thys dropped 
poison into the wound which aggravated his suffer- 
ings tenfold. 

Three times had he thus stood beside the church- 
path, and three times had he returned from the 
encounter to weep his fill unseen under cover of 
the fir-trees; but so greatly had each of these 
dreary meetings affected him, that he had since 
8 * 


90 


THE MISER. 


ceased to seek them, and now only watched from 
afar off and unnoticed the coming and going of 
the object of all his thoughts. 

Jan the mason’s widow was the only one who 
could occasionally throw a ray of consolation 
athwart the gloom which darkened her young 
benefactor’s soul. She was at no loss to account for 
the inmost cause of all his sufferings, and ever and 
anon found means with well-timed calculation to 
touch the chord that stirred his heart with a 
momentary thrill of pleasure. Boldly at last she 
spoke out to him the magic word love , compelled 
him to lay open to her the secret of his griefs, and 
thus acquired the right of offering him consolation 
without disguise, by constantly speaking to him 
of Cecilia, and raising in him hopes that the 
absent loved one cherished for him in her bosom 
a feeling not dissimilar to his for her. 

Indeed, since Cecilia’s separation from her friends 
at the Chapel farm the poor beggar-woman had 
exhibited an activity that might be called quite 
surprising. From early in the morning till the 
last thing at night were she and her little Mieken 
out and about. No sooner was Bart at his work 
in the fields than immediately she was at his side 
with a word of comfort suggestive of happy pros- 
pects, and in a few moments off again, to return 
an hour or two afterward with a fresh dose of con- 
solation. Had he perchance to pass the Abbey 
farm, he was sure to come across the widow and 
her child sitting at a convenient corner for spying 


THE MISER. 


91 


out what might he going on at the miser’s house ; 
did he pass through the village, there he met her 
coming or going, he the weather what it might ; 
did he take his stand on the Sunday to get a far- 
off peep at Cecilia as she passed, he saw the widow 
advance resolutely into the middle of the road to 
beg an alms of Cecilia, regardless of the old man’s 
angry gestures of repulse. 

Was it a feeling of gratitude toward Bart 
and Cecilia that alone instigated the poor widow 
to these extraordinary exertions ? or was not also 
the hatred which she bore to the unprincipled Thys 
a main ingredient in the causes of her activity ? 

At all events, whenever and wherever she 
might chance to come across the enemy of Bart 
and persecutor of Cecilia, so piercingly and mys- 
teriously did her eyes meet his, so boldly uncom- 
promising was their expression of menace and 
defiance, that by degrees an irresistible dread of 
her began to grow upon Thys, who soon became 
fully persuaded that the beggar-woman whom be 
had so often harshly repulsed had some insight 
into his designs upon the old miser’s hoarded 
wealth. What it was that he might have to fear 
from her he knew not; but that was precisely 
the circumstance that irritated his uneasiness. 
It was not, moreover, unknown to him that the 
widow, as representing her husband, bad a right 
to look for some small part in the inheritance; 
indeed, this knowledge it was which had excited 
him to an especial harshness toward her. 


92 


THE MISER. 


The anxiety which this feeling occasioned him, 
and which was aggravated by Uncle Jan’s evi- 
dent decline, made him more and more impatient 
to carry his designs into effect, and therefore 
more urgent with Cecilia to procure her consent, 
no matter by what means, to a speedy marriage. 
One day he would he all kindness and complais- 
ance, seeking to win her over by the fairest 
promises ; then again he w r ould be bitterly spite- 
ful, not to say savage, endeavoring, not only by 
threats, but sometimes even by positive ill-usage, 
to bully her into compliance, and even to work 
upon her by the fear that her life would not be 
safe should she persist in her opposition to his 
will. But, use what efforts he might, whether 
directly or through her uncle, whose mind he 
systematically poisoned against her by the basest 
calumnies and insinuations, she ever stood con- 
sistently firm in her refusal, entrenching herself 
for the most part in patient silence, which, how- 
ever, again did her harm with the old man, attri- 
buting it as he did to the mere sullenness of 
obstinacy. 

Early one morning Cecilia was sitting by the 
fireplace. She had lying upon her lap some 
half-finished article of female apparel. Neverthe- 
less, she was not actually at work ; her hands lay 
loosely upon her knees, her eyes were fixed in- 
tently but unconsciously upon the fireless hearth, 
and in a low voice she now and then dropped 
half-muttered words, which indicated the direc- 


THE MISER. 


93 


lion of her secret thoughts. The name of Bart 
and that of her uncle fell ever and anon from 
her lips, accompanied by deep sighs; but her 
countenance remained unchanged, motionless as 
the features of a marble statue. Suddenly a 
noise of footsteps struck her ears a deathly pale- 
ness overspread her face, and she trembled as 
though in frightened expectation of some horrible 
apparition. And probably her apprehensions 
were accurately fulfilled, for one of the doors 
presently opened, and Thys came in. 

Cecilia bowed her head still lower, as though 
to avoid seeing him; but else she remained per- 
fectly motionless. On his countenance stood a 
smile of such malignity, such venomous cruelty, 
as in truth fully to justify the terror with which 
she seemed to regard him. Without saying a 
word, he came close up to her, under the pretence 
of seeking for something among the ashes with 
the tongs, and as he did so set down his foot so 
heavily upon hers that a thrill of pain darted 
through all her body ; still, difficult as it was, she 
maintained her silence. Then, moving his elbows 
hither and thither about her head, he contrived 
to strike her more than one sharp blow with 
them in the face, but still without extorting a 
word of complaint from her lips. All she did 
was to draw herself in, to make herself small, so 
to say, like one that looks for ill-treatment and 
accepts it with helpless submission. After re- 
peated attacks of a similar kind, under which 


94 


THE MISER. 


the poor girl passively allowed herself to be 
thrust about, first one way, then the other, like 
a lifeless object, at last Thys spoke. 

“ You sit there like a log of wood!” he roughly 
exclaimed. “ Do get out of my way, can’t you !” 

And as he uttered the words he pushed her 
so violently by the shoulder that her head struck 
heavily against the chimney-piece. Still in the 
same unbroken silence she resumed her former 
position, but this time was unable to restrain a 
gush of tears, the shock and the pain for the 
moment overhearing her will. The cruel tor- 
mentor now retired by two or three steps back- 
ward, crossed his arms upon his chest, stood 
a while gazing on her with a hideous grin of 
spite, and again spoke. 

“I told you yesterday,” he said, “that to-day 
is your last chance ; so think well of it ; there 
is nothing so had hut what you may look for it 
to-morrow if the sun goes down to-day without 
my having your ‘yes.’ ” 

And, as Cecilia still neither stirred nor spoke, 
he became positively furious. 

“Ah!” he cried; “you woir’t speak, won’t you? 
that’s all that’s left you now, it seems! but I’ll 
make an end of that too ; I’ll find a way to loose 
your tongue, I’ll warrant you ! Come, let’s hear 
you speak !” 

And he darted upon her, seized her by both 
shoulders with the gripe of a vice, and shook her 
so violently hither and thither that her head 


THE MISER. 


95 


turned round with it. And all the while he fixed 
his eyes on hers with so ferocious an expression 
that the poor victim trembled in every limb. In 
truth, she was not far from the thought that he 
was about to murder her. 

“ Speak!” at last he bellowed out, “ or I’ll crush 
your shoulder-bones between my fingers !” 

A low cry burst forth from the maiden’s breast ; 
she fell upon her knees, and, with uplifted 
hands, — 

“Oh, Thys, Thys!” she exclaimed, “what harm 
have I done to you? If you want to kill me, 
for mercy’s sake do it at once, and don’t torture 
me to death piecemeal in this way!” 

The ruffian regarded for a moment the poor 
girl, who knelt trembling at his feet, with an 
intense feeling of cruel satisfaction. 

“Ho, ho !” at last he exclaimed, with a savage 
laugh; “haven’t I always told you that I should 
have you on your knees before me yet? You 
didn’t believe it could be, did you? and now 
there you are I” 

“Mercy, forgiveness, I implore you!” continued 
Cecilia; “I will do what you will — be the slave of 
your every wish — obey your every hint; I will be 
your veriest servant.” 

“That’s not what I want.” 

“I’ll give up all my share in my uncle’s pro- 
perty to you ; I’ll beg him to make a will leav- 
ing it to you, and, if it’s necessary, or will make 
it any stronger, I’ll confirm his will myself before 


96 


THE MISER. 


witnesses, and do all I can to secure every thing 
to you. But for God’s sake leave me a little 
rest, a little peace. My head wanders ; I feel — I 
fear I shall go mad.” 

And still, without rising from her seat, she 
bowed her head upon her breast. 

“All that’s mere idle talk,” replied Thys; “but 
there’s another way of making me the best fellow 
in the world, and that way you know well enough. 
For to-day you have the choice open to you ; to- 
morrow it will be too late. If you won’t come 
into my plans, you may as well say farewell to the 
light of the sun ; my hatred shall waste you and 
wear you out bit by bit; you shall perish like 
snow before the slow fire of my revenge. Ha, 
ha! you see that you don’t half know me yet! 
And now answer me : will you be my wife or 
not?” 

Without answering a word, she rose from her 
knees, returned to her chair, sat down, and 
pressed her hand over her eyes. Thys also took 
a seat, and continued, coolly and calmly, — 

“Look you here, Cecilia. Before I make up 
my mind to proceed to the uttermost with you, 
I’ll try this once more to see if I can make you 
hear reason. I really can’t make you out. It’s 
every girl’s destination to be married, a little 
sooner or a little later. What can it signify 
what her husband’s name is, so that he’s in case 
to keep his wife comfortably and make her life 
pleasant ? And that I shall be able to do that 


THE MISER. 


97 


you don’t for a moment doubt, I think. No 
doubt young people are apt to have great ideas 
about love and sympathy and friendship, and to 
think of them as things that have a real and 
great worth in life; but, take my word for it, 
that’s all a dream, — a dream that passes away 
with the idleness of youth. There’s only one 
thing that keeps its value throughout, that sup- 
plies the place of every thing, and is, in fact, 
the inexhaustible fund from which every thing 
comes. That one thing is money. Well, now, 
money we shall have enough of, and to spare; 
so what can there be to be anxious or sad 
about? Because there will be no love, esteem, 
friendship, and all the fine words to the end of 
the chapter, in our married life? What’s the 
worth of a bucket of water to the owner of the 
spring from which it all flows and flows on for- 
ever ? You don’t answer me ; but I understand 
well enough what you would answer ; you would 
say that it’s not merely that you don’t love me, but 
that you downright hate me. But hatred — what 
is hatred? A dream! — a feeling that, just like 
love, grows up and passes away with its cause. 
You hate me because I torment you, don’t you ? 
Well, then, marry me, and you shall see how 
pleasant I’ll make myself; and your hatred will 
pass off along with the reasons that you have for 
it. Well, what say you ? must I get angry again, 
and fetch the words out of you with hard 

knocks?” 

9 


98 


THE MISER. 


At this last question, uttered in a tone of gloomy 
menace, the poor girl began again to tremble 
violently. In a tone of piteous entreaty, she re- 
plied, — 

“ Oh, forgive me ! I cannot speak otherwise 
than as I feel. Look you, Thys; you don’t know 
what it is to sit thus alone here for whole days 
together, thinking and dreaming and suffering. 
The spirit takes a deep look into things as they 
really are, and gets at a great deal that else it 
would quite pass by. Do you know, Thys, what 
marriage is ?” 

“ Why, of course, it’s a partnership of two peo- 
ple who lay their chances in life together to get 
the more advantage out of them,” answered Thys; 
“just neither more nor less than as two people in 
business put their capitals together that they may 
drive a greater trade.” 

“Would to God it were but that!” she replied, 
sighing; “then perhaps I might bring myself to 
do as you wish.” 

“ It is nothing else, take my word for it,” reite- 
rated Thys. 

“ No, no ! it is the annihilation of the woman’s 
individual personality,” she went on, with vehe- 
ment emphasis ; “ an annihilation to which God’s 
law, and the feeling of duty, and inexorable neces- 
sity, alike subject her. As I am, unmarried, I am 
at least an independent being; I have a will of 
my own, and may resist you without sinning 
against God and my conscience ; and if in the end 


THE MISER. 


99 


I die of a broken heart under your persecutions, I 
may hope to find the recompense of my sufferings 
in another world. But once married to you, once 
your wife, then I must carry out all your wishes, 
subject myself in every thing to your will, belong 
to you, in fact, as a slave to a master ; and that it 
is that makes me shudder at the thought alone of 
what you want of me.” 

This discourse seemed to throw Thys into utter 
astonishment, not so much at the matter of it as 
at the calm and earnest tone and manner in which 
it was delivered. It was with intense irritation 
that he beheld such an exhibition of steadfastness 
and independent will in one whom he had re- 
garded as at last utterly worn-out and broken. 
He soon recovered himself, however, and in a few 
moments answered, with a jeering laugh, — 

“How I understand you. Upon my word, you 
see deeply into things ! Why, I believe you’d be 
capable, if you did marry me, of refusing me the 
wedding-kiss !” 

“Ah,” cried she, despairingly, “the wedding- 
kiss from you ! that would kill me ! And if after 
that I could live a single day, I should hate myself 
then more than I hate you now!” 

Thys rose from his seat, and, looking her full in 
the face, with a savage smile, — 

“So you’ll rather die, then?” he said; “die 
slowly, bit by bit, as if you were being pricked to 
death with pins ?” 

She gave him no answer, and he too now was 


100 


THE MISER. 


silent, and remained for a considerable interval 
deeply lapsed in thought. At last, in a careless 
tone, he resumed : — 

“ So be it, then ; I see there’s no hope whatever 
of bringing you to reason ; I must get my ends in 
another way. I suppose you don’t know yet whe- 
ther my fingers are of flesh or of iron, and I shall 
have to show you. However, for this morning 
we’ve had enough of it, and we’ll save the rest for 
the afternoon. Ho you think over, in the mean 
while, what marriage is ; perhaps it may be of 
some use to you in the other world !” 

And as he spoke these last words he stepped up 
to the outer door, and stood for a moment on the 
threshold, anxiously looking about him in every 
direction. 

44 That accursed quean is not there now. Sharp’s 
the word!” at last he muttered; and then, turning 
back toward the room, and addressing himself to 
Cecilia, with vengeance flashing in his eyes, — 

44 1 have to go out for a few moments,” said he. 
44 Ho you bolt the door inside. Perhaps Frank 
Halinckx will be coming to pay his interest that’s 
due; if he does, make him wait. And if you 

open the door to another soul alive ” 

He raised his hand, crooked his fingers toge- 
ther like claws, and, with a motion as of grasping 
her by the throat, and a murderous expression on 
his countenance, — 

44 You understand me !” he said. 

And with these words he left her, trembling 


THE MISER. 


101 


with terror and the agitation of the scene, and 
proceeded along the footpath toward the village. 

Hardly was he outside the door when Cecilia 
ran from her seat, hastily shot the bolt, and 
then fell upon her knees in a dark corner of 
the chamber, and with folded hands sent up a 
prayer to God for protection and deliverance. A 
dismal silence reigned around. Her solitude was 
complete. Her prayer was broken by agonizing 
sobs, with which the loaded bosom struggled in 
relieving itself. Ever and anon the silence would 
be broken by the wind howling in the chim- 
ney, or the old building, shaken by the blast, 
would crack again; then Cecilia would start up 
in terror, and look, pale and trembling, toward 
the door, each time to sink back into her former 
attitude and to go on with her tears and prayers. 

But presently she seemed to herself to hear a 
light tap at the door, so mysteriously and so stilly 
given as to be scarcely audible ; nevertheless she 
rose from her knees and approached the quarter 
whence it seemed to come, and soon the tap was 
distinctly repeated. 

“Who is there?” she asked, just as stilly and 
mysteriously as though sympathetically affected 
by the character of the signal. 

“ Are you alone, Cecilia?” asked a voice through 
the keyhole. 

“Ah, dear Kate !” answered Cecilia, recognising 
the voice; “for God’s sake go away! go away, 
and don’t let yourself be seen at our door!” 

9 * 


102 


THE MISER. 


“You are alone, then? Let me in! do let me 
in !” responded Kate, in an imploring voice. 

“ I mustn’t ! Oh, do- go away ! I’m in a terror 
for fear he should see you.” 

A moment’s pause ensued. Presently the voice 
from without was again heard, this time in a tone 
of piteous supplication: — 

“ Oh, Cecilia, my poor Mieken is lying here at 
the last gasp, dying with hunger on your door- 
sill, and just a morsel of bread would save her ! 
And you, Cecilia — you can never find in your 
heart to refuse me just that bit of bread?” 

This appeal went to Cecilia’s heart, she in her 
agitation not taking time to consider how far it 
was likely to be grounded in truth and not a 
mere stratagem to obtain admittance. 

She stretched forth her trembling hand toward 
the holt, which yet at first she did not venture 
to touch, eyeing it nervously, as though it was 
likely to harm her. 

“Quick! oh, quick!” moaned the voice from 
without, “ or it will he too late.” 

With feverish haste Cecilia drew back and 
opened, or rather half-opened, the door; but the 
widow, who had been watching her opportunity, 
immediately forced her way in. Her entrance 
once effected, her first care was to anticipate 
Cecilia’s expressing the astonishment which mani- 
fested itself upon her countenance in an audible 
form. Laying her hand upon the maiden’s lips, 
and speaking in a low, mysterious tone, — 


THE MISER. 


103 


“ Hush !” she said. “ My child ? Oh, she’s at the 
Chapel farm, safe and sound ! I was obliged to 
deceive you ; for I must speak to you. Where’s 
your uncle ? — up-stairs ? Hush, then ! he mustn’t 
hear us.” 

“ Oh, go away, Kate, do ! Thys will be hack 
directly,” said Cecilia, imploringly. 

The widow went up to the cupboard like one 
well acquainted with the localities, took a loaf out, 
and cut a slice from it. Then, shutting up the 
cupboard and turning to Cecilia, — 

“ There, this is the alms that you have given 
me,” she said ; “say nothing else to him, good or 
bad. I have seen him, and know where he’s gone 
to ; he’s at the notary’s. Don’t beg me to go away 
now ; I have been three months on the look-out 
for such a chance as this ; yes, full three months 
have I watched the Abbey farm from morning till 
evening, to get speech of you alone. I am de- 
termined to know what it is that’s going on here. 
It is not for nothing that Thys is with the notary ; 
he has some business of consequence in hand that 
won’t be so soon settled ; he will not be back again 
just yet. By-the-way, I mean to be at the bottom 
of that too before I’ve done; but you’re as pale 
and thin as a corpse ! Why, what’s going on here 
then, that makes you waste in this way?” 

“ Ah, Kate ! dear Kate ! I mustn’t tell you.” 

“Mustn’t tell me!” repeated the widow, scorn- 
fully ; “ why, what are you afraid of, then ? there’s 
death in your face already. I suppose he has for- 


104 


THE MISER. 


bidden you to speak? Of course, he wants you to 
hold your tongue and pine away ; he wants to kill 
you, in fact. All he cares for is to be rid of you, 
no matter how, to have you out of his way, that he 
may clutch your share of the inheritance too. 
And are you so crushed and broken,, so worn-out, 
that you can’t stand up against him, and let him 
carry it all his own way just by your cowardice ? 
Isn’t it, think you, a downright sin against God to 
give up your own cause so and let wickedness gain 
its ends for want of a little spirit ? Perhaps you’ll 
say that it’s your own affair ; but, even if it was no 
sin — and it is a great one — to throw away your 
own life so, what will you say if there’s some one 
else that you’re killing at the same time ? — 
some one that loves you? that can’t live without 
you ? that’s wasting and pining away for you ?” 

“My God, my God!” exclaimed the poor girl, 
in a desponding tone, “is Bart ill, then?” 

“How can you ask such a question, Cecilia?” 
was the reply. “You yourself, then — you have 
never thought of him, never mourned after him ? 
It has been ‘ out of sight out of mind’ with you ?” 

Cecilia sank upon a chair and began to weep 
bitterly. At last, her voice broken with sobs, — 

“Kate,” she said, “perhaps I am not doing well 
to let you see all that is in my heart. Oh, I have 
suffered more than he ! for at all events he has the 
sun, the fields, the open air; he has friends to 
speak to and kind words to hear ; he has his mo- 
ther; while I — I hear nothing but scolding and 


THE MISER. 


105 


abuse; I see nothing but the four hare walls of 
this prison, unless when in my solitude his name 
involuntarily uttered by my own voice strikes my 
ear, or a day-dream vividly conjures up his image 
before me.” 

A smile of satisfaction lighted up the widow’s 
features. Tenderly she took the suffering girl by 
the hand, and, — 

“You do love him, then, Cecilia?” she said. 

The maiden made no reply. Silently she hung 
down her head to hide the blush that crimsoned 
on her cheeks. 

“ Ah, Cecilia, do but just say that ! tell me that 
you love him !” 

“ I can’t, Kate ! you’ll not keep my secret — my 
soul’s secret !” 

“ But, Cecilia, if my telling out this secret might 
perchance save a life ?” 

“Ah me! well then, let him know that which 
I’ve never till now ventured to confess plainly to 
myself. It was the separation from him that made 
me suffer most ; and, if I die, my soul will carry 
with it to God’s presence the thought of him.” 

Here Kate rose from her seat, half opened the 
door, and looked out into the distance across the 
fields. Then, returning, — 

“I don’t see Thys yet,” she said. “But, come 
now, Cecilia, pluck up a little spirit and fight your 
own battle with him ; he is but a coward !” 

“ But, Kate, tell me now, is it really true ? Is 
Bart really so ill ?” 


106 


THE MISER. 


“Well, that lie’s downright to call ill I won’t 
say; but he’s pale, and thin, and pining, like your- 
self, Cecilia. He’s near enough to the grave to 
tumble in, if he gets no comfort. But now I have 
the right medicine for his disease. And now let 
me hear, Cecilia dear, — tell me what has been going 
on here for these three last unhappy months ; hut 
make haste about it, for we’ve no time to lose.” 

“ Well, then, listen, Kate. You’ll not say a word 
of what I tell you to any one, will you ? — and yet 
what signifies if you do ? he can hut kill me ! 
Well, then, Thys wants me to marry him.” 

“If I didn’t think so !” murmured the widow. 

“And he’s put it into my uncle’s head to want 
it too, and day after day the poor old man is at me 
about it; but I’ll die a thousand times first! 
There’s no kind of persecution that I haven’t had 
to suffer. I’m abused and scolded at; I’m half 
starved ; I’m overdone with work ; I live in a con- 
stant alarm and terror ; and — but for God’s sake, 
Kate, not a word of this to Bart — yes, Kate, I’m 
knocked about, pinched, and beaten like a poor 
brute beast.” 

“Good heavens! what’s all this I hear?” cried 
Kate, lifting up her hands. “Why it’s just as 
though you’d fallen into the hands of banditti ! I 
tell Bart about it indeed ! God preserve me from 
it! if he heard a word about such goings on, 
tliere’d soon he bloodshed, sure enough; and then 
he’d have to pay for it, poor fellow ! But your 
uncle ! has he quite taken leave of his wits, then?” 


THE MISER. 


307 


“ My uncle, poor man ! he’s deceived and led 
away. He takes all that I say for mere wicked 
falsehood; in fact, he’s bewitched, Kate. If I 
could only get to speak with him alone ; — hut all 
day long he is shut up alone up-stairs, far away 
behind, and not even Thys can get at him. He just 
comes down to meals, and then Thys is always by, 
and contrives to twist all my words, so that what- 
ever I say or do only irritates my uncle, as though 
not a word ever came out of my mouth but de- 
ceit, evil-speaking, and falsehood. Sometimes I’m 
really in doubt myself whether I mustn’t he out 
of my senses and saying what I shouldn’t without 
meaning it. How at last I’ve made up my mind 
to my lot ; I bow my head and suffer in silence, 
in the thought that it’s God’s will for me that I 
should leave the world so.” 

“ Horrible !” said the widow, with a long-draw r n 
sigh, or rather groan, at once of compassion and 
indignation ; “but why don’t you escape, get away, 
from this hell and the devil that torments you ?” 

“ Ah, dear Kate, more than once an indefinite 
dread of something more horrible still has passed 
across me, and I’ve looked toward the door; 
but ” 

“But you were weak! You were a coward!” 
interrupted Kate, angrily and scornful^. 

“ But my poor old uncle ! — shall I leave him 
alone in this desolate den, where no mortal ever 
comes, to the tender mercies of that fiend of 
treachery and cruelty ? And then, too, the dis- 


108 


THE MISER. 


grace! — a young girl running away from her 
home !” 

Here she stopped, for Kate had risen from her 
seat, and was gone to the door to he on the look- 
out. 

“ Yonder he comes,” observed the latter, com- 
posedly returning to her seat ; “if he sees me, just 
tell him I begged of you and you gave me a slice 
of bread for pity’s sake. And don’t lose your 
courage ! I’ll find a way to help you ; and if I 
can’t do it speedily enough, why, escape from this 
house, on which the curse of God rests.” 

But the tyrant’s return had awakened Cecilia’s 
terror of him, which for a moment had slumbered, 
in all its force. Pale and trembling, she stretched 
out her hands toward the widow, and could only 
repeat, imploringly, — 

“ Oh, go away ! go away ! he’ll do you a mis- 
chief !” 

“I’m not afraid of him,” answered Kate. “Be 
of good heart, dear Cecilia! you shall see me 
again.” 

The poor widow left the house and walked 
slowly away. As she went out she could notice 
that Thys had observed her and was making 
double haste on his way homeward. Retiring 
therefore a stone’s-throw or two on one side, she 
took up a convenient station, murmuring to her- 
self, — 

“ I dare say now he’ll be ill-using Cecilia ; I’ll 
listen at the keyhole and hear what goes on.” 


THE MISER. 


109 


Presently, however, she noticed that Thys had 
left the footpath and was making his way straight 
to the place where she was standing. She on her 
part stood her ground, and calmly awaited his ap- 
proach, which, from the moment of his being 
within hearing, he made amid a volley of oaths 
and threats. These, however, she received nothing 
disconcerted, regarding him the while with so pro- 
voking a smile of contempt that at last he felt 
compelled to come to a pause, though certainly 
not from any abatement of his rage. 

“Who w T as it let you in?” he began, quivering 
with suppressed fury ; “ what have you been about 
at the Abbey farm?” 

“ Oh, terrible things, indeed !” answered Kate, 
scornfully; “I’ve been begging for half an hour 
for a bit of bread, and at last Cecilia has given it 
me. It isn’t everybody that’s as hard-hearted as 
you are.” 

“Let me see the bread!” he replied, in atone 
which sufficiently implied that he did not believe 
a word of her story. 

The widow showed him the slice with which 
she had provided herself. Thys took it in his 
hand, looked at it first on one side, then on the 
other, gave it her back, and resumed : — 

“ However, it’s all one what you were there for. 
Just you stay away from our place, or you shall 
repent it.” 

“Pooh! so much for your threats!” answered 
Kate, undauntedly, with a snap of her fingers ; 

10 H 


110 


THE MISER. 


“what can you do to me? but I, poor beggar- 
woman as I am, I’ll trip you up yet !” 

“You!” cried Thys, now beside himself with 
rage, and raising his hand as though to strike her. 
“Another word, and I break your neck !” 

But Kate only pointed with her hand toward a 
field in which three or four peasants were at work. 

“Look you there, yonder, in that field,” she 
said ; “ all those people there would be glad enough 
to do me a good turn and you a bad one. Just 
lay a single finger upon me, and I’ll cry murder 
upon you ! there will be no want of witnesses to 
say that you’re capable of that, and worse too. 
So, if you wouldn’t like to make acquaintance with 
the police, w r hy, keep your hands to yourself.” 

Trembling wi$h irritation, but cowed neverthe- 
less by her coolness, Thys stood staring upon her 
and all amazed, while she, after a moment’s pause, 
with a provoking smile, went on : — 

“ Ha, ha ! I suppose you think you’ve got all the 
cunning in the world to yourself! but it’s just pos- 
sible that you’re mistaken there. You fancy that 
nobody know T s wiiat goes on at the Abbey farm ! 
Pray, is it to-day or to-morrow that the old man’s 
will is to be made?” 

“What? What’s that you say?” cried Thys, 
astonished and quite taken aback; “it’s not 
true !” 

“ It’s not true, isn’t it ? And pray what makes 
you stand there like a schoolboy that’s just going 
to be caned ? But mind what you’re about; there 


THE MISER. 


Ill 


shall be fair play for every one. And, keep the 
doors of the Abbey farm as close as you may, re- 
member the law can open them.” 

“ The law ! the law ! what grounds can the law 
have for doing that, pray ?” 

“ Hark you, Thys ; you know just as well as I 
do that grounds are easily found or easily made. 
And now good-by to you till we meet again.” 

And with a loud laugh, and leaving Thys 
strangely disconcerted, she went on her way. 

For a while he stood gazing after her with an 
air of surprise, not to say consternation, and then 
turned back lost in thought toward the Abbey 
farm. More than once on his way he stood still, 
rubbed his forehead, stamped with his feet, and at 
last entered the house, so intently occupied with 
his own cogitations that he passed on through the 
room in which Cecilia was, apparently without 
noticing her presence, and disappeared through a 
second door in the hack part of the building. 


112 


THE MISER. 


CHAPTER VI. 

On the following morning the sun rose majes- 
tically in the clear blue sky. It was by this 
time the middle of May. Still, the fine days had 
hitherto been but few and far between, and it was 
only by slow and imperceptible degrees that tree 
and field had been putting on their green spring 
dress. During the night, however, the wind 
had gone about from the north to the opposite 
quarter, and now wafted the warm exhalations 
of the south, as a balsam fresh from the central 
region of life and heat, in genial undulations 
over the earth. The sun beamed brightly but 
mildly over the glad face of nature, which shone 
forth fresh in youthful beauty, with all the at- 
traction of a lovely maiden flower-crowned with 
her bridal wreath. From every tree, from every 
bush, resounded a universal chorus of blithe 
sounds; aloft in air the lark trilled his merry 
notes ; myriads of little creatures, of every variety 
of form and color, hummed and hovered about 
the foliage or frolicked playfully among the grass 
of the banks ; the very earth itself swarmed with 
life. In fact, it was nature’s fair-day ! 

Over the Chapel farm too the sun shed out 


THE MISER. 


113 


his gladsome light; there too the birds made 
the air resound with their songs of love and hap- 
piness. But amid all this movement and this 
universal exultation of nature, the lonesome dwell- 
ing stood as silent and as still as if it alone, 
with all belonging to it, was still buried in the 
sleep of winter. 

Mother Ann was sitting by herself beside the 
hearth, busied in trimming vegetables for the 
pot. But it was hut little of her attention that 
she w T as bestowing upon the occupation of her 
hands. Ever and anon her eyes wandered rest- 
lessly around, as of one that in vain seeks to 
escape the domination of some haunting thought ; 
and, in fact, the whole expression of her coun- 
tenance told of deepest sadness and discourage- 
ment. 

"While there the good woman of the house 
sat and thought, Bart came in with some im- 
plement of husbandry in his hand. Certainly, 
he must have been fatiguing himself with a 
severe job of hard work, for his hack was bowed, 
and his step was slow and heavy, as, without 
greeting or sign of recognition, he passed on 
through the room as though he had not remarked 
his mother’s presence. 

She meanwhile followed her son with her 
eyes. The absence of mind with which he passed 
her by evidently distressed her beyond measure ; 
and hardly had he disappeared through the inte- 
rior door than silent tears began to trickle down 
10* 


114 


THE MISER. 


the sad mother’s cheeks as she bowed her head 
over her work. 

Some moments afterward, Wanna came in 
with a pail of milk. She set her pail down, 
and was about to lift off the cover of the great 
caldron; but in the same moment she noticed 
the tears upon her mother’s cheek, and held her 
hand. An expression of impatient annoyance 
crossed her countenance ; she approached her mo- 
ther, took her by the arm, and shook her pretty 
sharply, adding, in an aggrieved tone of voice, — 

“What, again? Why, it’s always the same! 
You’ll soon both of you be quite laid up, and 
leave me to do all the work by myself. If I 
didn’t bear up well, I’m sure I don’t know 
what would come of it !” 

But no answer did she obtain, save in a fresh 
gush of tears. Then in a tone of entreaty she 
resumed : — 

“Come, mother, do cheer up a bit! Why, I 
shall never be able to bear up much longer 
myself, with nothing but melancholy faces to 
look at every day and all day long! There’s 
Bart speaks never a word, but comes and goes 
like a shadow; and you, mother, the moment 
you’re alone, break out into tears. I must for 
once speak my mind right out, mother: there’s 
neither sense nor reason in it; or else there’s 
something under it all that I do not understand, 
for nobody says a word to me, and I live here 
as if I wasn’t one of yourselves.” 


THE MISER. 


115 


The poor mourner took her daughter’s hand, 
and pressed it, as though to testify of undi- 
minished affection. Then, in a tone of lamenta- 
tion, — 

“ Wanna, my dear child,” she said, “don’t you 
see that your brother is pining away? Don’t 
you observe how strangely his eyes wander, 
and how pale and thin he gets? And when 
you look at him, don’t you at times feel all 
in a tremble for fear of its coming to worse 
still?” 

“Heavens, mother!” cried "Wanna, nervously, 
at the same time wiping away a tear, “what 
can you mean ? Bart is sad, and gets thin, I 
know that ; but I know very well too why it is. 
One may pine away a little with that sort of 
sorrow, but with time one gets over it never- 
theless. And what business, too, had he to be 
setting his heart on Cecilia? She’s no match for 
him ; for we’re just poor folk that must slave 
for our daily bread, and she — she’s rich, or will 
be. Why don’t you set well at him, to get the 
folly out of his head? But no; you just cry 
about it, and let him take his way. Oh, if only 
I was his mother !” 

“Child, child!” sighed the mother, “if you 
did but know all I have done to bring him to 
reason ! — prayers and tears, scolding and coaxing : 
I’ve tried every thing, and every thing has been 
in vain. He acknowledges his folly, and that 
I’m right in all I say about it; promises to do 


116 


THE MISER. 


his best to forget her, falls on his knees, and 
begs my forgiveness ” 

“Yes, and you, mother — you give it him 
directly, don’t you know?” 

“And I, Wanna dear, I that am his mother, 
I see well all that’s going on in my poor child’s 
heart, and I can’t find it in mine to be hard 
upon him. You can’t understand it, Wanna; 
we’re no two of us just alike in these things; 
and I dare say I shouldn’t understand it myself, 
if I hadn’t once in my life had occasion to see 
what love can bring a man to when it’s crossed. 
Bart’s of a nervous constitution, just like his 
father. Well now, Wanna, would you believe 
that your poor father, before we were married, 
lay at the point of death, so as already to have 
received the last sacraments, because our parents 
had separated us and he wasn’t allowed to see 
me ?” 

“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed Wanna, in sud- 
den terror; but added, almost immediately - re- 
covering herself, “well, but father got well over 
it in the end, for all that; didn’t he, mother?” 

“So he did, Wanna; but how? Our parents 
had quarrelled about a right of way across a 
field, and things had come to such a pass be- 
tween them that they were at downright daggers 
drawn, and couldn’t bear to hear one another’s 
names. Well, I wasn’t allowed to see your 
father; and he, poor fellow, who was more in 
love with me than I knew of, pined away till lie 


THE MISER. 


117 


lay upon his death-bed. Thanks he to God, 
the good priest, out of pity for the poor young 
fellow, reconciled our parents, and I was allowed 
to visit him before he died. The tears come 
into my eyes when I think of that day ; I won’t 
speak of it; hut a month after that he was able 
to go to church with me and our parents for us 
to be promised* together.” 

Wanna was looking hard at her mother, with 
glistening eyes. 

“Look you, Wanna,” resumed the latter, “your 
father was just a poor peasant, such as we are 
now; hut sure and certain it is, there was that 
in him that made him one of a thousand, and 
so it may well be with our poor Bart too.” 

The maiden shook her head in thought, with her 
eyes fixed on the ground. After a few moments 
she looked up again. 

“ It’s strange enough,” she said, “that one person 
should pine away out of liking for another, just 
because he’s of a nervous temperament; for my 
part, I don’t see how it can be. But, mother, our 
poor father was a match for you ; so that wasn’t 
so out-of-the-way. With Bart and Cecilia the 
matter’s quite different; that can never come to 
any good. And so he must just knock the fool- 
ish thought out of his head.” 


* The Catholic church recognises the espousals as a distinct 
solemnity preparatory to marriage ; and the practice, under various 
modifications of form, still prevails extensively on the continent 
among Protestants as well as Catholics. 


118 


THE MISER. 


Mother Ann meanwhile had sunk away into a 
deep reverie; she paid no attention to what Wanna 
was saying, and gazed despairingly upon the 
ground. After thus sitting a while in silence, she 
sighed heavily, and began to speak as to herself 
alone : — 

“ He suffers like a martyr ! Kate told him some- 
thing yesterday that made his eyes light up with 
joy ; but she told him something too that made 
him grind his teeth with vexation. And last night 
in his sleep he talked and cried and called out — 
it quite gave me a fright as I listened to him ! And 
now this morning he’s all languid, and paler than 
ever, and his eyes look so dim and dead. Alas, 
alas ! my poor Bart ! my unhappy child !” 

In the same moment that these last w T ords fell 
from her lips and sounded through the room in a 
tone painfully expressive of heartfelt grief— just in 
this same moment Bart came in through the back 
door with a rake in his hand. Struck by the tone 
of his mother’s voice, he stood still, and for awhile 
fixed his eyes steadfastly on hers, from which the 
tears fell fast. Then, slowly going up to her, he 
pressed his lips to her forehead, and as from his 
eyes two warm drops fell upon it, in a sweet and 
almost inaudible voice, — 

“My poor dear mother!” he said; “ah, forgive 
me ! indeed, I cannot help it !” 

And ag'ain turning about, with his head bowed 
and one hand before his eyes, he passed on out of 
the house. 


THE MISER. 


119 


Even under the bright sunlight and amid the 
universal gladness of nature which surrounded 
him, Bart still could not lift his head. With 
stooping gait and apathetic air he dawdled on 
along the footpath like an old man bowed down 
under the weight of years. One might almost 
have thought that as he was walking he was 
occupied in looking for something among the 
grass. 

From time to time he stood still, muttered some- 
thing to himself, plucked a leaf from a tree or hush, 
rubbed it to pieces in his hand, and then, still mur- 
muring, resumed his course ; or he gazed absently 
upon the insects which so joyously fluttered hither 
and thither in the air, or pursued one another on 
the ground ; or he unconsciously dismembered the 
petals of a flower or listened to the answering 
call of the birds. 

What it was that all this said to him he very 
likely knew not himself; but, -for all that, the effect 
upon him was profound, and threw him off into a 
deep reverie, till, waking up again, he slowly re- 
sumed his onward way. 

But all at once, as though suddenly seized upon 
by some more potent thought, he came to a distinct 
halt, and, fixing his eyes upon the ground at his 
feet, in much emotion murmured out, — 

“ Cecilia, since yesterday I know what you suf- 
fer : — how you are ill-treated even with blows ! how 
you are pining away with desolation of heart! 
And all the while you love me ! Oh, how cowardly 


120 


THE MISER. 


and how weak does sorrow make one! I have 
neither spirit nor strength more ! I’m nervous and 
afraid; I know not what to do ; I can’t collect my- 
self; my thoughts are all confused; I’m sick in 
body and soul.” 

A sad and bitter smile distorted his pale coun- 
tenance. 

“ Sick ! sick !” he cried ; “ yes, put a fine name 
on your cowardice ! But if I had but spirit or 
power to act, what should I do ? Let her die ? 
Her that loves me ? Oh, that would be ill done 
indeed ! But — but what then ? Kill him ?” 

And at this question he started back, as if he 
had suddenly perceived a poisonous serpent in his 
way, ready to spring upon him with open jaws. 
An inarticulate groan of horror broke slowly from 
his bosom ; then he resumed : — 

“ Ah ! there is a God above us ! — my immortal 
soul ! — and then, my mother ! Ho, no ; there’s no 
help for it but to bow my neck and waste away 
with sorrow ; to bear my cross, bear it on to the 
churchyard. Ah me! all me !” 

And again he pursued his course, sad and spirit- 
less as before, pressing his hand to his forehead 
as though he feared its bursting. 

While the young peasant, thus full of suffering 
and of despair, was making his way along the 
shady footpath, which with every step he made 
was bringing him nearer to the Abbey farm, without 
however his being able to catch a glimpse of it, 
there was passing in that habitation a scene of 


THE MISER. 


121 


oppression more cruel still than any he could have 
had the heart to imagine. 

The door opened. On the threshold appeared a 
young girl, pale and thin, with a heavy bundle 
under her arm and the other hand pressed to her 
eyes. A man with an odious smile upon his coun- 
tenance kept thrusting her on from behind till she 
was two or three steps forward from the door-sill. 

There for a while the poor girl stood still, as 
though it was difficult for her to leave this spot ; 
nevertheless, urged on by the threatening words and 
gestures of the man, she at last proceeded slowly 
along the path, and turned across the fields beside 
a plantation of young oaks, which soon concealed 
the Abbey farm from her view. She had not yet 
raised her head, and still held her hand before her 
eyes, no doubt to conceal the tears which trickled 
from them down her cheeks. 

Presently — whether it was the warmth of the 
sun, or the bright light that surrounded her, or the 
voices of jubilation that struck her ear from every 
side, or rather all of these together that affected 
her nervous system — she stood still, and dropped 
her hand from before her eyes. 

With an admiration that seemed partly the result 
of novelty she gazed into the skyey depths, and let 
her eye wander with more and ever more delight 
over the wide creation. By degrees an indescribable 
smile shaped itself upon her countenance ; her 
bosom swelled ; her head set itself erect upon her 
delicate neck; her eyes sparkled with a new light; 

11 


122 


THE MISER. 


she lifted both her hands aloft, and, in a low but 
thrilling tone, exclaimed, — 

“ Liberty! liberty!” 

And she made a motion with her arms through 
the air, as though seeking to clutch with her 
hands the infinite space itself. 

For some little while she remained thus rapt 
out of herself, till her eyes had wandered over 
and enjoyed every object that was within their 
reach. Then gradually her self-consciousness re- 
turned. Her head sank again slowly upon her 
breast, the old sadness chased the smile from her 
countenance; again she bent her eyes upon the 
ground and her thoughts upon her sad lot. 

Again a little while, and she proceeded on her 
way along the footpath, dreamily musing as she 
went. But suddenly, as she turned an angle of 
the plantation, a cry of astonishment burst from 
her breast. 

“Bart!” she exclaimed ; and even he it was 
that stood paralyzed with surprise before her. 

The first impression of this unexpected meeting 
called up a smile of heaven’s own bliss upon the 
countenance of each ; but a glance at one another 
sufficed in a moment to cloud it over with an ex- 
pression of sadness and even affright. Without 
speaking, they bdth bowed their heads and wept 
bitterly. Bart was the first to raise his eyes 
again and to find his voice for an expression of 
sorrow and condolence. 

“Cecilia, poor girl, how thin and pale you are!” 


THE MISER. 


123 


“And yon, Bart, I hardly know you again !” 
the maiden sobbed out, still without looking up. 

“I!” exclaimed the young man, desperately; 
“what does that matter? But you, Cecilia, that 
are goodness and kindness itself, an angel here 
upon earth,— that you should have to suffer so! 
that you should die, like a poor dumb lamb, 
under that false villain's hands! It makes my 
blood boil to think of it. God be merciful to 
me, or I shall surely one day crush that venom- 
ous beast’s head! But that bundle, Cecilia? 
where are you going to ? 

“They’ve turned me out of doors,” she sighed, 
with a fresh burst of tears. 

“Turned you out of doors!” exclaimed Bart, 
with indignation and wrath upon his countenance. 

But this first impulse was soon gone by, and gra- 
dually the expression of his countenance changed 
into one of growing satisfaction, and even pleasure, 
till at last, beginning to see clearly in the matter, 
he exclaimed, with transport, — 

“ Turned you out of doors ! What ! for good and 
all?” 

“Yes, for good and all,” was the sad reply. 

“And you weep, Cecilia?” he cried. “What! 
you’ve been months long sitting mourning in a 
gloomy prison, you’ve been at the mercy of a 
jailer that has beaten you and tormented you 
to death ; and, just as we were both in despair, 
as there seemed no escape for us but the church- 
yard, God gives you your liberty again — you’re 


124 


TIIE MISER. 


free — and you weep over it ! Oh, see, see how I 
take it!” 

And he threw himself on his knees upon the 
ground, lifted his hands aloft to heaven, and, 
with a voice as of one inspired, exclaimed, — 

“0 God, Thou hast released her! Thanks, 
oh thanks, for this thy merciful kindness!” 

Here his voice failed him ; hut he still remained 
m his knees and murmured on an inaudible but 
doubtless still intenser thanksgiving. 

As for Cecilia, she gazed upon him at once in 
surprise and admiration. For he was really a 
sight for admiration as he knelt there, his mild 
soul showing forth upon his countenance, his 
glistening eyes raised up to God! So intense 
was the expression of thankfulness to heaven 
that beamed upon his features, that Cecilia, rapt 
into a sympathetic transport, forgot for a moment 
her own circumstances, while an instinctive feel- 
ing of gladness sunk into her bosom. 

And now, rising from his knees, Bart instantly 
perceived the changed expression of Cecilia’s 
countenance; — no smile, hut something of that 
ineffable serenity which tells at once of peace of 
mind, of happiness. He seized her by the hand. 

“Come, come,” he exclaimed; “my poor mo- 
ther will be so glad ! Come, it’s so well to live 
in our house ! And your chair is standing just 
in the old place ; not a soul has sat in it since. 
And every thing there is mourning after you. 
Quick, come along!” 


THE MISER. 


125 


But she resisted him, and would not follow in 
the direction he sought to lead her. 

“What is it now, Cecilia?” at last he exclaimed, 
uneasily; “won’t you come home to our house, 
then?” 

“I must go on to the town,” she replied; “I 
have a cousin there who is a dressmaker ; I shall 
get work from her, and so earn my bread.” 

“Bread? work? What does all that mean?” 
cried Bart ; “ why, now — now that I can see you 
again, look into your eyes, hear you speak, now 
I feel my spirit double ; and if I work the fingers 
off my hands for it there shall be enough and to 
spare for us all. Come, come along !” 

“For Heaven’s sake don’t ask me to do that, 
Bart! It can’t he !” answered the maiden, mourn- 
fully. 

He looked her in the face with eyes full at once 
of sorrow and surprise. 

“Ah no, that can never he!” she repeated; “he 
sure of that, dear Bart.” 

A sudden change seemed to take place in the 
young man’s feelings ; again with downcast coun- 
tenance he drooped his head, while calmly and 
sadly he replied, — 

“Ah yes ! my sick heart was too full of joy, 
and I had forgotten. To-he-sure, Cecilia, after 
all I am hut a poor peasant lad, and you will 
one day he a rich young lady. I see I’m doomed 
to die !” 

So piteous and plaintive was the tone in which 
ll* i 


126 


THE MISER. 


the last words were uttered that they pierced 
deeply and painfully into Cecilia’s heart, and 
quite overcame the feeling of maidenly reserve 
which had hitherto been uppermost in it. She 
seized the young man’s hand and pressed it, and 
there was a deep expression of tenderness in 
her voice. 

“But, Bart, dear friend,” she said, “you’re all 
in a mistake. My uncle has disinherited me; 
he’s made his will and given every thing to 
Thys; I shall never have a stiver in the world.” 

The young peasant lifted up his head and 
gazed on her with an air of incredulity, while a 
smile formed upon his lips. 

“Yes, yes, dear Bart,” she repeated; “I’m poor 
now, — as poor as yourself, every bit.” 

“As poor as myself!” repeated Bart in his turn, 
now again out of himself for joy; “as poor as 
my mother and sister ! Heavens, what happiness ! 
Well then, come along; let the villain keep the 
money ; I’ll make you rich, Cecilia, with a whole 
treasure of friendship and kind feelings and 
love. Come, come along!” 

And again he seized her hand and sought to 
draw her on along with him ; but still she an- 
swered sadly, — 

“Ho, Bart, it cannot be !” 

“But, for God’s sake, why not?” 

A crimson blush of confusion spread over her 
face to the very roots of her hair. With downcast 
eyes, she inquired, — 


THE MISER. 


127 


“Did mason Jan’s widow say nothing to you 
yesterday afternoon ?” 

“Ah!” he cried; “so she spoke the truth, then? 
I didn’t dare believe it.” 

“What would people say of us, Bart? You 
must see yourself that it can never be.” 

“And so, Cecilia,” he replied, despondingly, 
“ you’re going off into the town, and away from 
us? and all perhaps to meet with new troubles, 
and to be cast off again there ? And you’ll let me 
die, and my poor mother go sick with grief, just 
for the people’s idle talk’s sake ?” 

He waited for an answer, but she neither spoke 
nor looked up. After a while he resumed, in a 
still more urgent tone : — 

“ Come now, Cecilia ; you can sleep with my 
mother, and always be with her ; and I will sur- 
round you with respect and love, as though you 
were my very guardian angel in person. And I’ll 
work — work from early in the morning till late at 
night; and nothing shall be wanting to make us 
happy. And you shall get well again, and strong 
and blooming, and bring a blessing upon our 
house, as you did before. Oh, come, come ! be a 
sister to my sister, and a child to my mother.” 

And w T ith folded hands he seemed to beseech an 
answer. The maiden looked at him doubtfully. 

“Oh, Cecilia,” he cried, “speak! Think that 
there’s one up there above us all who know T s best 
whether what we do is right or wrong.” 

A smile full of meaning gleamed upon Cecilia’s 


128 


THE MISER. 


countenance ; she drew her breath heavily, like 
one that is struggling with some weighty resolve. 

“ Well, well ?” asked Bart, trembling with joyful 
anticipation. 

“Well, then,” she replied, “so he it; your 
mother shall be my mother ! I’ll come home to 
her as if I was her own child.” 

A cry as sharp as if it had been the expression 
of severe and sudden pain burst from the young 
peasant’s breast; he clasped his hands together 
over his eyes, while two gushing fountains of tears 
hurst forth from under his fingers and trickled 
down his cheeks in copious streams. The maiden 
was at a loss to comprehend this violence of 
emotion, and essayed to calm him with soothing 
words. 

“Ah!” he presently sighed out, at the same 
time laughing nervously through his tears, “ there’s 
pain in joy too ! A strong sudden dose of it tries 
both heart and head sorely; but it’s over now. 
Come, dear friend, come along !” 

They now struck into another path. As for 
Bart, he was a totally changed man. On he walked, 
with head erect and looking proudly about him as 
he went; his cheeks glowed with quickly-circling 
blood ; his eyes sparkled with blissful excitement ; 
the motions of his arms and legs were of a some- 
what excessive energy, as though, just awakening 
from a long slumber, he was shaking off from them 
the effects of it; ever and anon broken ejaculations 
of delight burst from his lips. 


THE MISER. 


129 


“ 011 God! oil God!” at last he cried, “ what a 
blessed thing life is ! Look you, Cecilia, I’ll work 
hard on the farm, and make hoops in the yard ; 
you shall do as you did before — do a little dress- 
making for the neighbours ; Wanna will look after 
the cow ; mother will stay at home with you and 
cook for us ; and whatever any of us can get, we’ll 
put it all together and so make a savings-box. 
Then we’ll buy another cow, and take a bit more 
land ; and who knows ? why, in time perhaps we 
may come so far as to hire a servant. And per- 
haps in time the little Chapel farm will be so 
happy a home, and, with God’s blessing, so pros- 
perous, that you’ll never think again of that grim 
ugly prison yonder and all you’ve suffered there.” 

“ Oh Bart, how beautifully you can talk !” mur- 
mured the maiden, in deep emotion ; “ it will be a 
heaven upon earth !” 

“ That’s just what it must be,” pursued the 
youth, in the same joyous strain. “ And I’ll plant 
our garden all full of the nicest flowers, with foot- 
paths between the beds ; and I’ll make bird-cages 
to hang up here and there and everywhere, that 
there may be nothing but singing and merry voices 
all about ; and I’ll learn all sorts of new songs to 
sing, and stories to tell, and dances to dance, and 
thank God on my knees every day of my life that 
he sent you to us. Heavens, heavens, what a life L 
dear Cecilia, what a life it will be ! But look 
yonder by the draw-well : there stand my mother 
and Wanna.” 


130 


THE MISER. 


And as lie uttered these last words he left 
Cecilia, and started off toward the cottage like an 
arrow from a bow. Nevertheless, with all his 
haste, he found breath to keep shouting, as he ran, 
“ Mother ! Wanna !” in a voice that resounded far 
and wide over the fields. 

His mother turned about at the sound in no little 
astonishment, which was greatly increased when 
she beheld the speed with which he came coursing 
on toward her. As for Wanna, his strange ges- 
tures and unintelligible cries so disconcerted her 
that she stood with mouth wide open looking first 
at Bart and then at her mother, as asking for a 
solution of this singular enigma. 

But before Mother Ann had found time or words 
to express her astonishment, on came Bart, rushing, 
panting, and exulting, till he was close to her, and 
proceeded at once to explain the matter as well as 
his want of breath would let him. 

“Mother,” he cried, “dear mother! sister 
Wanna ! I’m cured ! Laugh, sing, and be merry ! 
Here’s Cecilia ! yonder she comes : they’ve turned 
her out of doors ; she’s as poor as we are, she’s dis- 
inherited, she’ll come and live with us and be your 
child, mother. Look, look, there she is ! Already 
she’s smiling to you, the dear creature. Ah, now 
you sha-n’t have to sit crying any more ; I’m so 
strong, and so well, and so merry ; ha, ha ! 


Down with care, and away with sorrow! 
Happy to-day and happy to-morrow !” 


THE MISER. 


131 


The poor mother looked upon her son with eyes 
beaming with unspeakable joy. At the first mo- 
ment she had been in fear for his senses ; but the 
tone of his voice speedily reassured her, and the 
appearance of Cecilia, who now came running up 
with hastened step, soon left no further room for 
any doubt at all 

By a simultaneous movement Mother Ann and 
Cecilia extended their arms toward one another, 
the one in deep emotion, the other beaming with 
new-found happiness. The maiden clasped her 
adopted mother round the neck ; the mother pressed 
upon .her second daughter’s cheek the kiss of wel- 
come, glowing as a scintillation from the soul’s 
inmost, holiest depth of love. 

Bart looked on at the moving spectacle quivering 
with bliss. Tears trickled down his cheeks ; he 
raised his eyes in prayer to Heaven, and then, as 
overcome by his feelings, leaned his head against 
the drawing-machine of the well. 

As for Wanna, she danced for joy, clapping her 
hands exultingly, and exclaiming, — 

“ Oh God ! oh God ! it’s all come right at last ! 
What happiness !” 

As soon as Bart had a little recovered himself, 
he approached his mother, and, as though still in 
fear of something, began pushing her, Cecilia, and 
Wanna, toward the door of the cottage. 

“ Come in ! come in !” he cried. 

They did as he said, and he was about to shut 
to the door ; hut as he was doing so he perceived 


132 


THE MISER. 


the poor widow Kate hastening np with her child 
along one of the footpaths; he held his hand, 
and, with his head out at the door, stood making 
urgent signs to her to hasten all she could. As 
she entered the forecourt, he exclaimed, — 

“ Quick, quick, Kate ! it’s all joy now! Cecilia’s 
here! quick!” 

And, hurrying her in, he closed the door. 


THE MISER. 


133 


CHAPTER Yn. 

Since Cecilia had taken up her abode at the 
Chapel farm, the humble cottage had become in- 
deed a place of joy and pleasantness, even as Bart 
in his first burst of delight had pictured it. 

Every thing there was happiness and peace. 
Bart worked away heartily the whole day long, and 
sang without ceasing at his work ; the freshness 
and vigor of youth came back to him ; a continual 
smile shone upon his countenance, accompanied 
by the rosy hue of returning health ; every word 
that fell from his lips was full of life and spirit ; he 
was the very living image of light-heartedness. 

What gave him the most pleasure of all was 
the conviction that Cecilia did not regret her old 
home. True enough, she not unfrequently lapsed 
into a fit of silent sadness when she thought upon 
her aged uncle and pictured to herself with some 
alarm all that he might so easily have to endure 
in the solitude of the Abbey farm ; but these oc- 
casional painful surmises could not weigh for much 
against the constant happiness wdiich she found in 
the tender good-will of Bart and his mother, nor 
against the undisturbed serenity of her daily life. 
From her cheeks, too, the ashy hue of suffering 
12 


L34 


THE MISER. 


gradually disappeared ; and, while habitually quiet 
and even reserved in manner, yet she would ever 
and again light up into one of those fairy smiles 
which can only proceed from a heart at peace 
within itself. 

Cecilia worked at dressmaking for the neighbors, 
at which, being an uncommonly skilful hand, she 
made a very pretty hit of money, not a little to her 
gratification and to the encouragement of Bart 
and herself in their ambitious hopes and plans for 
the enlargement of the farm. True, the savings- 
box received hut a few stivers a week ; sometimes 
indeed even nothing at all, but sometimes, on the 
other hand, apiece of silver. Still, its contents in- 
creased; and, when Bart came into his mother’s 
chamber and merrily shook the box which held 
the collected savings of their love and industry, 
the sound it gave was pleasant to the ear and full 
of promise to the heart. 

The young lover had made it his especial busi- 
ness so to dress and decorate his mother’s house 
as to render it a pleasant home for its beloved 
guest; and for this purpose had tasked to the 
uttermost his powers both of invention and execu- 
tion. In the little garden behind the little yard he 
had laid out little beds, divided by little footpaths 
and edged in with *e^er-fiowering thrift. Quite 
behind, close by the hornbeam hedge, he had put 
up a trellis, and over it trained a bower of honey- 
suckle and clematis, with a bench on either side, 
— one for his mother and Cecilia, the other for 


THE MISER. 


135 


Wanna and himself, — where on Sundays after ser- 
vice they would all come and sit together, and 
sing and tell pleasant tales, and rejoice in calm 
discourse over the sweet tranquillity of their life 
and Go.d’s manifold mercy and goodness. 

In the garden grew all kinds of flowers; not 
only the well-loved lowly plants that are native to 
the heaths and thickets of the Kempen,* hut also 
many of those which have been naturalized from 
other regions, — the last a present to Bart, from 
Frank, the under-gardener at the Manor-house. 

Against the house itself hung several bird-cages, 
from which incessantly resounded the sharp, clear 
notes of their inmates ; and pigeons, so tame that 
they would come and take their food out of Cecilia’s 
hand, had their houses in the roof, and strutted 
with pouting breasts along the paths. At the 
corners of the beds were planted upright sticks, 
bearing on their points little mills which turned 
with the wind, or figures of fencers in attitude or 
gamekeepers taking aim, whose weapons ever 
pointed in the direction from which it blew : all 
of them matters which Bart had devised and exe- 
cuted for Cecilia’s pleasure and out of love for her. 

Wanna had her full share in the common hap- 
piness, which she entered into with the careless 
light-heartedness of a child, like a child too rejoic- 
ing in the felicity of the rest. 


* Or Campine, an extensive moory district in the neighborhood 
of Antwerp. 


136 


THE MISER. 


As for Mother Ann, she was overwhelmed with 
attentions and demonstrations of affection ; and, as 
she saw her children’s eyes beaming pleasure upon 
her at every glance, she certainly would not have 
changed her lot with that of the lady of the Manor. 
In fact, the poor little cottage of the Chapel farm 
was a very paradise upon earth. 

Very different was the state of things at the 
gloomy abode from which Cecilia had been ex- 
pelled, and which since her departure had been so 
solitary and so silent, so deathly still, that it stood 
there among the trees like some fated building 
smitten with the curse of heaven. Sometimes for 
two days together would the laborers who were 
at work in the fields about not once see the door 
open. The mysterious house, with its creviced 
walls and broken window-panes, inspired all the 
villagers with an uneasy fear; it was only the 
most courageous among them that would willingly 
after nightfall have taken their way through its 
vicinity. 

And now, for the last two Sundays, Uncle Jan 
had not even been out to church, and Thys, when 
asked after him, had replied that he was confined 
to his bed with the gout ; but, though it was very 
well known that he had occasionally suffered from 
this complaint before, yet, coming from Thys, 
this explanation hardly obtained universal credit. 
However, old Jan’s miserly way of life had made 
him so unpopular that no one seemed to trouble 
himself any further about him ; — no one but only 


THE MISER. 


137 


Cecilia, wlio had wept hitter tears at hearing of 
his illness. 

One morning early, in the middle of the second 
week, Thys was sitting by the fireplace at the 
Abbey farm with a good fire burning on the 
hearth. With the help of a pair of tongs he was 
broiling a piece of meat upon the coals, dipping it 
every now and then in a plate of melted butter ; 
in the embers on one side of the hearth stood 
steaming an earthen pipkin. 

His piece of meat cooked, Thys set it on the 
table and devoured it with an intense expression 
of gluttonous satisfaction upon his countenance. 
Then he put plate and bread away in the cup- 
board, carefully wiped his mouth, and again took 
his seat beside the fire. Then, after a while, mak- 
ing a dip with the tongs into the boiling pot, he 
fetched up a quantity of green herbs, eyed them for 
a moment, threw them back again, and presently 
commenced a soliloquy : — 

“A dainty-looking mess this of Uncle Jan’s, 
and much good may it do him ! — as if one’s stomach 
was to be cheated in this silly way! I wonder 
what ass it was wrote the book in which he finds 
all these fine things ! Chiccory and water-cresses 
to put young flesh upon old bones ! I must go out 
and gather some water-cress, that the folks may 
take notice ! Ah, well, I have put in a couple of 
handfuls of scurvy-grass too; that will purify his 
blood for him ! Miserly upon his very death-bed ! 
However, that’s no affair of mine; I’m not here to 
12 * 


138 


THE MISER. 


thwart him. If he is determined to try the expe- 
riment of living without eating, why, with all my 
heart, and good luck to him ! I didn’t think at 
first he could have held out so long; but he has as 
many lives as a cat.” 

Here he paused for a moment, bent his eyes 
fixedly upon the fire, and sank away deep into a 
reverie, during which his countenance gradually 
darkened more and more. Then again he re- 
sumed his mutterings : — 

4 4 Yes, he has as many lives as a cat. And who 
knows how long the lamp may flicker on yet! 
I’m regularly made a fool of, and after all I’m 
selling the skin before the fox is caught. This 
very morning Claes the farmer told me that the 
burgomaster and the rector had been asking him 
after uncle Jan at the vestry-meeting. And then 
this confounded woman that goes about every- 
where abusing me and setting all the world against 
me ! it’s she and she alone that’s the cause of the 
folks hating me so. This morning I did but step 
out round the corner to get some chiccory — not 
twenty paces from the house: — there she stood 
watching me from behind the coppice. I don’t 
know, but I can’t help feeling as if some mischief 
would come to me one day or another through 
that beggar-woman. If the burgomaster and the 
rector were to come here and want to see Uncle 
Jan ! I’ve a will that leaves me every thing, that’s 
sure enough ; but that they know as well as I, and 
who can tell what they might say to the old man 


THE MISER. 


139 


about it ? — the rector, especially, might be talking 
him over and putting things into his head.” 

This last reflection evidently threw him into a 
violent trepidation. For a while he sat on in 
silence, his head resting on his hand, then began 
again : — 

“ Cost what it may, no one must come at him ! 
As it is, he already begins to think uneasily about 
w T hat he’s been doing, and is always talking about 
Cecilia. It wouldn’t take much to make the old 
fool change his mind. What to do? Something I 
must, to stop the people’s mouths : but what? It’s 
my being here so quite alone with the old man 
that puts thoughts into their heads. If Cecilia 
was but still here they wouldn’t concern them- 
selves about what became of the old skinflint ; but 
that would be a stupid trick: — to lock the cat into 
the cupboard to take care of the meat ! And yet 
the only way to keep things smooth with the 
rector and the burgomaster and the rest of the 
busybodies is to have some one here in the house 
with us, — some one, it might be, under the pretence 
of doing odd jobs and errands, that needn’t see the 
old man after all. Yes, so it must be; of two 
dangers take the least ! Then, who’s it to be ? 
that’s another question, again.” 

lie bethought himself a moment, shook his head 
with an air of annoyance, and then relapsed into 
thought again, till at last a smile began slowly to 
steal over his countenance. 

“A capital idea!” he exclaimed, “if only I can 


140 


THE MISER. 


bring it to bear ! It will cost something smartish, 
though ; for promises must be kept, say the simple- 
tons. And then, too, there’s danger in it — fair and 
softly ; don’t let’s be rash, but think it well over 
first. Well, I should think Uncle Jan’s scurvy- 
grass would be done by this time. How, then, let 
me give this matter one more good turn in my 
head. A reasonable enemy is better than a stupid 
friend. Perhaps, after all, the beggar-woman will 
go into the thing more readily than I fancy. But 
come, I’ll take the old man his mess.” 

He took the pot from off the fire, and, passing 
out at a side door and along a dark passage, 
reached the foot of a staircase, which he proceeded 
to mount. Then again came a long passage, at 
the end of which he at last entered the room occu- 
pied by Uncle Jan. 

There lay the unhappy old man, stretched upon 
a bed the filthy state of which would have made 
a beggar turn away from it with disgust, wasted 
with long sickness till nothing seemed left of him 
but skin and bone. His cheeks were totally fallen 
in, so as rather to display than to mask the contour 
of a death’s-head ; his eyes were deep-sunk in their 
sockets, from which they glared out with a glassy 
brightness; his complexion had assumed that 
ghastly hue that could not even be called paleness, 
but rather the absence of all color, — a shade that 
has no name, and by contrast with which the blue 
ness of his lips exhibited itself as a high-toned 
color. 


THE MISER. 


141 


The whole appearance of the chamber spoke of 
utter desertion; no human heart but must have 
sunk and saddened at the sight. The high over- 
arching walls, untouched by cleansing hand since 
the ruin of the convent, were hidden from the eye 
under the thick coat of dust and dirt which had 
accumulated upon them. The western wall was 
inherently damp ; the water which sweated from 
it trickled down upon the half-rotten floor and 
filtered down through that toward the lower 
regions of the building ; while foul-looking fungi 
bordered the unclean stream, and crystallizations 
of saltpetre formed sparkling patterns upon the 
plaster. 

A single lofty window, with broken panes and 
thickly barred with iron, admitted so dubious a 
light that the eye had to grow accustomed to it 
before it could readily distinguish objects in the 
deep gloom which confused them; while, though 
out of doors the ground was scorched with the 
summer’s heat, the atmosphere of the chamber 
struck chilly damp upon the chest. Beside the 
bed stood a chair and a table ; upon the latter a 
pot of water and a half-gnawed crust of rye-bread. 
In very truth, the aspect of the whole was that of 
a prisoner condemned by a cruel doom to the 
lingering death of hunger. 

The poor old man seemed to be asleep ; yet quite 
asleep he could not well be, for, as Thys came in, 
with a hasty snatch he hid something under the 
bedclothes — something which clanked and jingled 
K 


142 


THE MISER. 


like a bunch of keys. Thys saw the movement, and 
heard the sound too, for an ill-omened smile crossed 
his countenance, and he seemed to be pricking up 
his ears the better to assure himself of its cha- 
racter. Then he drew near to the bed, set down 
the steaming porringer upon the table, and, in a 
harsh voice, — 

“ Come, Uncle Jan, here’s your breakfast,” he 
said. 

The sick man did all he could to turn. upon his 
side, but after a painful effort was obliged to give 
up the attempt, and fell heavily back into his 
former position. 

“ It’s all over with me,” he groaned out. “ Oh, 
my dear Thys, I have been so ill all night !” 

“ Come, let me help you,” replied Thys, at the 
same time extending his hands toward him. 

“Oh, no, no !” exclaimed the old man, in a tone 
of nervous entreaty, evidently terrified at the 
offered help. 

But Thys paid no attention, passed his hands 
under the patient’s body, lifted him roughly, as he 
might have done a log of wood, and set him up in 
a sitting posture against the pillow. 

“Oh! oh! how you do hurt me!” groaned the 
old man. 

“What! did I hurt you?” asked Thys, in a 
hypocritical tone of sorrow and compassion. “I 
really couldn’t help it! You are so easily hurt. I 
was obliged to lift you, as you couldn’t get up 
yourself. But come, it’s over now; eat something; 


THE MISER. 


143 


but take care and don’t burn yourself ; it’s hot, I 
can tell you.” 

The old man took the spoon with a trembling 
hand, dipped it into the pot, and brought up a 
spoonful of the greens which it contained, saying 
the while, — 

“ Oh God, Thys, if only the herbs would do me 
some good ! I am so weak, — so weak and ill !” 

To this complaint Thys made no reply, but only 
fixed his eyes on the sick man more intently. 
Hard as the traitor tried to dissemble what was 
passing in his heart, he could not quite suppress 
the smile of glad surprise which rose upon his 
countenance. He rejoiced in the evident sinking 
of the old man’s strength, and the hope that all 
would soon be over glistened in his eyes. 

Meanwhile, Uncle Jan had eaten a spoonful or 
two of the greens ; but soon he shook his head, 
let the spoon fall, and looked fixedly at Thys, as 
in inquiry or reproach. 

“Well, what is it?” asked the latter. 

“ Oh, Thys,” answered the sick man, in a tone 
of disgust, “ what vile stuff it is ! It burns in my 
mouth like fire and makes my stomach heave 
again !” 

“I suppose now you’re going to take it into 
your head that you’re poisoned,” replied Thys, 
jeeringly. “Of course water-cress is hot; only 
you’re ill now, and can’t bear it.” 

The old man stripped up his sleeve, and show- 
ing his bare arm* said, in a plaintive voice, — 


144 


THE MISER. 


. “ What, Thys, have you no feeling for me ? See, 
I’m a mere skeleton !” - 

“Come, come, cover up your arm,” was the 
answer; “why, what’s all this about? Who is 
there that can pity you or feel for you more than 
I do? But sickness makes you silly; why, one 
would think you were dying.” 

“ What! am I not ill enough, then ?” 

“ 111 ? yes ; but not so ill as you fancy. There’s 
a deal of strength left in you yet, Uncle Jan. 
It’s your spare people that live the longest. If 
you get no worse, there’s no harm done yet.” 

“I hope it may turn out so, Thys !” 

Then, after a moment’s pause, — 

“Oh, I am so hungry !” moaned the sick man. 

“ Well, eat, then !” answered Thys, thrusting the 
crust of rye-bread into his hand. 

But in vain he essayed the dry, distasteful food. 
Soon he began again : — 

“ Thys, I should like to have something else ; the 
bread goes against me ; it’s like so much sand.” 

“Well, what will you have? There are many 
more kinds of herbs set down in the book that 
you’ve not tried yet.” 

“ No ; no more of them : some meat I want ; 
— some meat soup. Oh, that must be good! it 
sets my mouth watering to think of it !” 

An expression of annoyance and irritation 
•flashed up for a moment upon Thys’s counte- 
nance; he contained himself, however, and only 
replied, — 


TIIE MISER. 


145 


“ Meat ! meat soup ! that would be enough to 
inflame your blood and kill you out of hand, — 
you that haven’t touched any thing of the sort 
for so many years !” 

“Ah no, Thys! do for God’s sake get me 
some meat !” 

“Very well, you’re your own master. Only 
give me the money ; and if it should be the death 
of you, you are my witness that I have said my 
say against your imprudence and gluttony.” 

“Money!” murmured the old man, “money! 
that’s always the beginning and end of the 
song.” 

He drew his hands in and fumbled - a while 
under the bedclothes, as though feeling over or 
counting out pieces of money. At last he put 
forth one hand to Thys. 

“ There ! now get me some meat,” he said. 

“Ha, ha!” cried Thys contemptuously, laugh- 
ing as he looked at the piece of money ; “ a stiver ! 
a stiver’s worth of meat ! — a fine piece that will 
be ! They won’t serve you with so little as that; 
I must have twenty cents at tbe least, or I sha’n’t 
get any.” 

“Heavens! twenty cents! four stivers for a 
little bit of meat!” murmured the old man, in a 
tone of despair. “However, it’s only for this 
once; there, Thys, there are fifteen more, and 
if there’s more than you want bring me the rest 
back. I dare say you’ll be able to beat them 
down a stiver ; at all events, a cent or two. 

13 


146 


THE MISER. 


You can get bones too, — they make excellent 
soup, and don’t cost so much.” 

“Of course, of course,” replied Thys, im- 
patiently ; “if there’s any thing over you shall 
have it.” 

He got up, and was about to leave the room ; 
but as he was doing so the old man began again. 

“Thys,” he said, “there’s one thing I forgot 
to ask you.” 

“What! haven’t you had your say out yet?” 
was the reply, in a tone of evident irritation. 

“Ah, don’t be so sharp with me !” sighed the 
old man. “Look you, Thys, last night I really 
thought I was going to die, and the thought 
threw me into a cold sweat with terror. Do 
you know why? Oh, if I’d gone off without 
confession !” 

“Well, what’s the meaning of all this?” asked 
Thys, with ill-concealed anxiety. 

“Thys, dear Thys,” continued the sick man, 
imploringly, “wouldn’t it be well that I should 
see the rector, so that I might be prepared? For 
who knows ? God calls us away so suddenly some- 
times !” 

But Thys made no answer. He stood with 
his arms crossed on his chest, gazing in silent 
astonishment upon the old man, who now went 
on : — 

“And Cecilia too ; I should be glad to see her 
once more before I die. She has done wrong; 
she has behaved very ill; but for all that she’s 


THE MISER 


147 


never out of my mind day or night; and I feel 
as if I must tell her I forgive her before I go 
to meet God.” 

“Better and better!” cried Thys, sarcastically. 
“How I do really begin to believe that you’re 
seriously ill! — in mind though, I mean; not in 
body. Why, Cecilia laughs you to scorn openly; 
there she lives with her ninnyhammer of a lover, 
and makes a jest of you. I did ask her if she 
wouldn’t come and see you, and all the answer 
I got was, that you’d find your way to the other 
world well enough without seeing her first.” 

The old man’s head drooped upon his breast, 
and he wiped away a tear; Thys meanwhile 
went on : — 

“ However, do as you like ; send for the rector 
and the doctor; set your house open to all that 
like to come in ; only then you must make up 
your mind to open your purse too. It won’t 
be with stivers that you’ll come off then ; every 
visit, every word, will cost guilders.” 

“Ah, well, let us wait a little, then,” sighed 
the old man, letting himself fall back in the bed, 
in mingled desperation and fatigue. 

“ Good-by till presently, then. Only keep your 
spirits up ; you’re not so ill as you fancy.” 

And with these words Thys left the chamber 
and descended the stairs into the sitting-room 
below. There he stood by the fireplace for a 
few moments, deep in thought. Then again, 
thinking aloud, he went on : — 


148 


THE MISER. 


“ There burst the bomb ! The rector ! Cecilia ! 
meat ! and to-morrow the doctor, and next day 
the notary ! Ho, ho ! he may ask for them as 
much as he will; that wont help him much; I 
have the old skinflint safe enough under my 
thumb now, where no one can hear him. But 
what if the folks outside should take it into 
their heads to want to see him ? The rector, for 
instance, especially? There’s only one way for 
it, and that is to have Kate in. But I must 
mind what I’m about. He mustn’t die without 
confession ; I won’t have that on my con- 
science. And it would cast suspicion on me 
after his death too. But there’s time enough to 
think about that. Ah! he’ll eat meat, will he? 
and then come to? and then alter his testament? 
Let me see: to-day is Thursday; to-day I’ll tell 
him I couldn’t get any : to-morrow’s Friday, and 
next day Saturday, both days of abstinence ; and 
after that let’s hope he’ll be gone to where they 
don’t eat meat. Let me see ; now to the beggar- 
woman, tp see what I can do with her. If I can’t 
carry that out as I wish, why, then I must think 
of something else. I must confess I’m afraid 
of that woman, but with a little given and a great 
deal promised perhaps I may bring her round 
after all. And then I should kill two birds 
with one stone: — be rid of her machinations and 
stop the people’s prating both at once. And if 
only she’ll go into the thing in earnest, and really 
stand by me, why, then, I shall have a sentinel 


TIIE MISER. 


149 


to keep guard when I’m out of the way. Well, 
we shall see now which is the more cunning of 
the two.” 

And, thus concluding, he left the house, hut 
not without taking care to lock the door on the 
outside. 

“ How, if Uncle Jan would hut make an end of 
it while I’m out,” he muttered, a why, then all 
would be straight ; but he’ll hardly be so obliging 
as that. However, who knows? nothing is im- 
possible.” 

And, thus soliloquizing, he was proceeding on 
his way to the village, when suddenly he per- 
ceived Cecilia at some distance off, but advancing 
along the same path in the opposite direction. 
For a moment he turned pale, but almost in- 
stantly recovered himself; while she did not 
notice his approach till they were close upon 
one another. Then first perceiving him, she 
came directly up to him and spoke. 

“Oh, Thys, I am so glad to see you at last! 
Be so good as to tell me, really and plainly, how 
is my uncle?” 

Her unassuming and friendly tone set Thys 
quite at rest as to her intentions; he answered, 
therefore, civilly enough, — 

“Well, Cecilia, he’s getting on pretty well. 
He has a fit of the gout : it’s the rich man’s com- 
plaint, you know ; but no one dies of it, and no 
doubt he’ll get over it too ; for the present, though, 
he’s confined to his room.” 

13 * 


150 


THE MISER. 


“And does lie suffer much pain?” 

“*So so — so so. Not very much, considering.” 

Cecilia’s eyes were moist with, tears. 

“But, Thys,” she went on, “you’ll take good 
care of him; won’t you, now? You won’t let 
him want for any thing that can help or comfort 
him ?” 

“What should he want for? he’s quite con- 
tent,” was the reply. 

There was something in her eyes, as she looked 
at him, so gentle and deprecatory, that he for his 
part stood all in a maze; he even seemed to 
fancy that it was expressive of a change in her 
sentiments toward him, and accordingly pro- 
ceeded : — 

“Ah, Cecilia, if you’d have done as I wished, 
you’d been a lady one of these days. Now it’s 
too late ; I’m to have all myself. That comes of 
obstinacy !” 

“Thys,” the maiden began again, with the 
same expression of gentleness and supplication 
upon her countenance, “ may I ask a favor of 
you?” 

“Why not?” 

“ But will you grant it me, Thys ? I shall he 
so thankful to you !” 

“ Let me hear what it is.” 

“It does grieve me so, Thys, not once to be 
able to go to see my poor uncle, and he so ill. 
You know how I love him. Do let me see him, 


THE MISER. 


151 


for God’s sake, Thys, and I’ll remember you in 
my prayers.” 

The hypocrite shrugged his shoulders, and re- 
plied, — 

“I’ve thought of that myself; and if it de- 
pended on me, Cecilia, the day shouldn’t go by 
without your seeing him.” 

“Look you, Thys, you needn’t be afraid of 
me; you’re quite welcome to all the money for 
me; I don’t care about it. There’s something 
better than money to be happy with here upon 
earth.” 

Then, folding her hands, and more and more 
imploringly : — 

“Thys, dear Thys, do let me see him just for 
a moment! it might perhaps be some comfort 
to him, now that he’s so ill.” 

“You deceive yourself,” he answered. “I 
have asked him myself, I suppose more than 
twenty times, whether I should ask you to come 
to see him; but I’ve never been able to bring 
him to say yes. He’s so irritated against you 
that he can’t hear your name without flying out ; 
and that’s not good for the gout, you know.” 

The poor girl put her apron to her eyes and 
wept bitterly. 

“Oh God,” she exclaimed, through her sobs, 
“what have I done to him, then? — to him that 
I have never ceased to love as my father, that 
I’m always thinking about, always dreaming 
about? And he’s set against me! hates me! 


152 


THE MISER. 


Since I left liis house I’ve never shed a tear but 
what was on his account ! If he only knew how 
I love him, he couldn’t cast me off so cruelly !” 

“Yes indeed, Cecilia,” responded Thys; “one 
would think so, and I’ve not a word to say 
against it ; hut old people have strange fancies. 
However, don’t be out of heart ; I’ll try and bring 
him round yet. I have done something already; 
he’s not so bitter against you by a good deal as 
he was. I know him ; and I don’t doubt but in 
a few days I can get him into another way of 
thinking ; and then I’ll let you know.” 

“Do so, then, dear Thys; be so kind. I’ll be 
grateful to you my life long.” 

“Well, Cecilia, now I must be going; but be 
of good hope.” 

“And if meanwhile he should become really 
dangerously ill, Thys ?” 

“ Oh, then I’ll come and fetch you whether 
he will or not.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, my friend !” cried the maiden 
heartily, while Thys left her and went on his 
way 

“It’s strange,” he began, again soliloquizing, 
as he stepped along in the path; “I do believe 
now she doesn’t care whether she gets the old 
man’s money or not. She’s fool enough for that. 
Other means of happiness ! Love, I suppose ! 
I’m curious to know how long that will last. A 
bird with no seed in his trough has soon done 
singing ! So she wants to see her uncle, does 


THE MISER. 


153 


she ? we’ll take pretty good care that that doesn’t 
come to pass.” 

“And so, casting in his mind this and many 
other matters, he walked on, striking off in due 
time into another path, which at last brought him 
on in front of a poor cottage on the edge of a 
coppice. 

“Now, then, sharp’s the word ! here lives mason 
Jan’s widow. We mustn’t be in too much of a 
hurry to let out what we’re after. She must be 
at home, for there I see her child routing in the 
sand before her door.” 

With loitering step he approached the poor 
mud-built dwelling. The child did not hear him 
coming till he was close upon her and spoke to 
her. 

“Good-morning, dear Mieken; where’s your 
mother?” 

But, as though the voice of an evil spirit had 
struck her ear, the little girl sprang convulsively 
to her feet, and, with a terrified look at Thys, 
dashed off into the neighboring thicket, and 
thence away over the fields, screaming lustily as 
she ran. 

“I don’t seem to be exactly in first-rate favor 
here,” he muttered; “if the mother receives me 
as graciously as the child, I shall hardly take 
much by my visit.” 

He entered the cottage as he spoke, and scanned 
all in it with a contemptuous smile. 

“ She’s not living on the fat of the land, though^ 


154 


THE MISER. 


the good woman ; why, all that’s in her place put 
together wouldn’t fetch ten stivers! I begin to 
think we may come to terms ; a little money must 
carry all before it in such a den as this. I’ll sit 
down and wait a bit ; most likely the child is off 
to her mother.” 

And in this surmise he was not mistaken ; the 
little girl had made the best of her way to a field 
where her mother was at work, and, still trem- 
bling with affright, had told her how Thys had 
called at their cottage. 

For the first moment this news struck her, as 
they say, all of a heap with astonishment. What 
could the villanous impostor have to do with her? 
And for some little time she stood with her eyes 
bent upon the ground, seeking an answer to this 
question. Gradually, however, her features re- 
laxed into a smile, — a smile expressive at once of 
sly insight and of a certain sort of satisfaction. 
She gave her child in charge to some other women 
who were working in the field, and proceeded 
homeward, still thinking over what this might 
mean as she went. 

“ Thys come to look for me ? What ever can that 
he for? Something must have happened; or 
there’s something more than usual in the wind. 
I know he fears me ; he can’t see me without start- 
ing. Good-will to me it isn’t that brings him; 
there’s a snake in the grass somewhere. So, wide 
awake, Kate ! he’s a cunning fellow, and might 
very well take you in, one way or the other. But 


THE MISER. 


155 


I’ll keep my wits about me, and see what it is he 
has in his sleeve.” 

Thus cogitating, she had arrived at her home ; 
and now, entering and immediately addressing 
herself to Thys, — 

“Well,” she commenced, “you here, of all peo- 
ple in the world ! I had never thought to see you 
under my poor roof! But, since you are here, 
what is there I can do for you ?” 

“ Take a seat, Kate,” answered Thys, already 
half-disconcerted by the widow’s entire self-pos- 
session; “I’ve something serious to talk to you 
about.” 

And thereupon she did so, adding, as she sat 
down, — 

“ I’ve not much time to spare ; so, make haste ; 
I’m listening.” 

“Look you, Kate, I know that you’re sadly 
poor ; believe me, I’m sorry for you ; if I could do 
any thing to help you up a little, it would be a real 
pleasure to me.” * 

“ Why, how now !” exclaimed the widow, with a 
laugh ; “ and it was all out of pity, I suppose, that 
last winter you pushed down my poor Mieken and 
drove me out of the house like a strange cur?” 

“You must forget that, Kate. Times change, 
and people with them. I’ve been sorry since I 
was so hard with you, and have meant to make it 
good if I had the opportunity. Well, I think I 
can do you a good turn now, if you won’t refuse 
one from me.” 


156 


THE MISER. 


She eyed him distrustfully, and made no answer, 
although he was evidently waiting for one from 
her; not getting one, however, he proceeded: — 

“ Now, if I could send a hit of money your way, 
— enough to set you and yours above want, — would 
you thank me for it, Kate?” 

“Is it alms you’re offering me?” asked the 
widow. 

“No; something better than that. You know, I 
suppose, Kate, that Uncle Jan has made a will to 
leave every thing to me. Now you, on account 
of your late husband, have acclaim upon some small 
share in what he’ll leave ; at least so you think. 
And that’s why — because you felt that you were 
in the way to get nothing — that’s why you’ve 
always been so set against me. "Well now, to 
show you how well and fairly I mean by you, I’ve 
come to tell you that I mean to give you this share 
myself.” 

The widow listened, all astonished at what she 
heard. 

“ Yes,” pursued Thys ; “whoever gets the money, 
I or another, you’d have been none the better for 
it ; for your right’s doubtful, and at best could only 
be made good at a great outlay. However, as 
you’re the only one of the family that is really in 
poverty, and to show you that I’ve the heart of an 
honest man, I’ve come now to tell you that you 
shall have the share that you think you have a right 
to without trouble or dispute. Now, what say 
you?” 


THE MISER. 


157 


“ Indeed, you’re very kind !” answered the widow. 
“But are you in earnest? Do you really mean 
what you say ?” 

“ Why should I come and make you the offer ? 
Well, now, Kate, do you accept it?” 

“Indeed I do, Thys, and thankfully too ; but I 
only wish to know whether there are any condi- 
tions on my part ; for, do you see, Thys, something 
for nothing isn’t much in your way, or you must 
be very much changed of late.” 

“ Ko ; it’s a free gift, without any condition what- 
ever,” Thys replied. 

“ Then I accept gladly. But, to say the truth, 
your generosity seems so surprising to me that I 
still can’t quite believe but that you’re making jest 
of me.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“And when shall I get the money, Thys?” 

“ You’ll get yours when I get mine.” 

“ But what security have I that you’ll keep your 
promise?” 

“My word as an honest man.” 

“ Well, it’s possible that may be good for some- 
thing now, as you say you’ve so totally changed ; 
so I accept it for what it’s worth, and I thank you. 
Kow I must go back to my work.” 

She rose from her seat to return to the field, but 
with a smile upon her countenance which suffi- 
ciently testified that of all Thys had been saying 
to her not one word did she believe. 

“Wait a moment,” he now said, “and I’ll con- 
14 L 


158 


THE MISER. 


vince you that I’m in earnest with you. You know, 
Kate — or perhaps you don’t know — that the old 
man is ill ; he has the gout, and can’t leave his 
room. His illness throws a great deal upon me, 
and there are errands out of doors, and this and 
that to he cooked, — and in fact there’s more than 
I can well do all by myself; and so he’s asked me 
to look out for some woman that might be up at 
the Abbey farm in the daytime, and help me. 
She’ll get something decent a day and her good 
meals.” 

Since Thys had opened -upon this branch of his 
errand the widow had begun to scan him with close 
attention and heightened curiosity ; she seemed to 
seek some occult meaning in every word that came 
out of his mouth, suppressing, however, as much 
as possible, any signs of emotion. 

“ And so I came down to you, Kate,” he con- 
tinued, “to see whether you’d be willing to un- 
dertake the job. You’ll go home every evening 
and come up to our place in the morning. It 
won’t be hard work, and you shall have as much 
as you would get for your day’s work in the fields 
and your keep besides. That’s not a bad offer, I 
think; is it?” 

“ Far from it ; it’s the best of the whole matter. 
As for the rest, why, you know yourself, Thys, it’s 
ill reckoning your chickens before they’re hatched ; 
and, after all, things may go cross, and you may 
never come into the old man’s money yourself; 


THE MISER. 


159 


but the day’s wages for the day’s work, that’s sure 
money.” 

44 So then you accept ?” 

“ To-be-sure, to-be-sure, Thys ; do you think I’m 
fool enough to refuse?” 

4 4 But then your children, Kate ? 1‘never thought 
of them.” 

44 Oh, my children ? Tw’O of them are with my 
sister, some three hours’ walk from here; and 
Mieken looks after the cows for Farmer Claes ; 
she’ll be well taken care of there in the daytime, 
and at night I shall be at home myself, you know.” 

44 That’s all right, then,” said Thys, well pleased ; 
44 and so now our bargain’s struck. Come, Kate, 
your hand upon it, in witness that we mean fairly 
by one another. There, now it’s settled. When 
shall I expect you, then ? The sooner the better, 
as far as I’m concerned ; this afternoon can you 
come ?” 

44 Oh, I can come directly,” answered the widow, 
44 I’ve only to step down to speak to Farmer Claes 
and his good dame about Mieken and the work.” 

Thys now rose from his seat, and made as 
though in the very act of leaving, but stood still 
for a moment, and, with as good an air of indiffer- 
ence as he could put on, — 

44 By-the-way, Kate,” he remarked, 44 you just 
said I might perhaps never come into the old 
man’s money after all ; of course you know if I 
get nothing I can give nothing.” 

44 That’s of course,” answered the widow; 44 but 


160 


THE MISER. 


never fear; it won’t slip through your fingers 
now.” 

“So much the better for both of us, Kate, if it 
doesn’t ; hut one can never he too cautious. It’s 
true Cecilia’s quite willing I should have her 
share. Only this morning I was wishing to 
encourage her to hope for the best, and she 
obstinately persisted that she desired neither 
part nor lot in her uncle’s property. But there 
are others who have no right at all, and who, 
to have a pretence for forcing their way into 
the house, give put that the old man is at the 
point of death. So you must tell everybody the 
real truth; and that is, that Uncle Jan has the 
gout, neither more nor less. You will, won’t you ?” 

“I’ll say and do just whatever you tell me,” 
answered the widow 

“ Look you, Kate ; if we can once set the good 
people at rest about that, — as in truth they may 
well be, — then we sha’n’t have so many of them 
meddling in our matters.” 

“Leave me alone for that, Thys; you know 
well enough, I think, that my tongue isn’t stifi* in 
the hinges.” 

“ Only one thing more, Kate. I must tell you 
beforehand, else it might seem strange to you. 
The old man will have nobody to come near him 
.but me ; you’ll see nothing of him till he comes 
down again.” 

“There’s nothing strange to me in that; he 
was always that way before he was ill.” 


THE MISER. 


161 


“And mind, you must never let any one in 
while I’m out; you’ll mind that, won’t you? 
And you’ll keep the door fast locked and bolted, 
ihey may knock as they like ?” 

“I’ll do all you tell me. More I can’t say.” 

“ So do, then. For, just see: if you don’t pull 
with me like a true friend and a reasonable 
woman, why, then I shall he obliged to look out 
for some one else, and all is at an end be- 
tween us.” 

“You may go home quite at your ease, Thys, 
and of good cheer,” said the widow, now rising 
also ; “you shall be satisfied with me, if ever you 
are to be with any one.” 

“ Good-day, then, till the afternoon, or earlier, 
if you can. And here’s a handsel for you ; you 
see I’m not miserly with you.” 

He put a two-franc piece into her hand, left 
the cottage, and soon disappeared behind the 
thicket. For some moments the widow followed 
him with her eyes, then, with a scornful smile : — 

“ Ha, ha ! the false devil ! He thinks that I’ve 
sold my soul to him ! sold it for mere idle words ! 
But I should like to know what he’s about up 
there to want an accomplice for! So that’s it, 
is it? I’m to help him to cheat and plunder 
that angel-good Cecilia of her inheritance ! What 
does the hypocritical Judas take me for? But 
now I have him safe, the knave ! It must have 
been the justice of God that put that thought 
14 * 


162 


THE MISER. 


into his head. I was just the right one for him 
to happen upon !” 

A short pause of reflection ensued, during 
which the hitter smile passed away from hej 
countenance and gave place to a gentle expres- 
sion. With joy beaming from her eyes she 
recommenced : — 

“To recover for Cecilia her uncle’s love and 
her rightful inheritance; to repay her and Bart, 
my kind benefactors, for all their goodness; to 
punish the hypocrite, to oppose and overcome 
the evil-doer; — ah, that will be glorious! And 
therefore — and therefore I pray God to grant 
the poor widow understanding, that she may 
defeat the schemes of this bad man !” 

She left her cottage and struck into a path 
across the fields. And now, for the first time, 
she remembered the piece of money that Thys 
had put into her hand. For a moment she 
eyed it with a bitter laugh, then cast it far away 
over the trees, and hastily rubbed her hand upon 
her apron, as though to cleanse it from a stain 
the coin had left upon it. 


THE MISER. 


163 


CHAPTER Yin. 

The widow liad now passed three days at the 
Abbey farm. Nothing of what she saw there 
was of a nature to confirm her worst suspicions ; 
on the contrary, she began to believe that she 
had, to some extent, done Thys wrong. He 
showed so much care for the old man, and spoke 
so compassionately of his benefactor, that she was 
forced to doubt whether, after all, there might 
not lie something of good deep down at the 
bottom of his heart. That the old man, more- 
over, was in any immediate danger she could not 
believe either; for twice a day Thys had a good 
meal of meat and potatoes dressed for him, and, 
if he could bear such solid living as that, he 
could hardly but be in some sense strong and in 
good case. 

But here Kate was taken in. If she had fol- 
lowed the hypocritical villain into the dark pas- 
sage, when he, as he said, carried up the patient’s 
meals, she would have seen that it was not to the 
old man’s chamber, but to his own, that he car- 
ried the strengthening fare. Poor Uncle Jan got 
nothing but poor food that his stomach revolted 
against ; such that he even gnawed on by prefer- 


164 


THE MISEK. 


ence at his hard, dry rye-bread crust, little suited 
as that, too, was to do him any good. 

The sick man did, indeed, with increasing im- 
patience, even at times with considerable irrita- 
tion, begin to press for better nourishment, 
feeling himself to be in fact dying with hunger ; 
but all that he could say upon this head was totally 
ineffectual, — Thys at one time talking him over 
with plausible words, at another simply turning 
a deaf ear to his entreaties, until the poor old 
man held his peace from mere exhaustion and 
weariness. 

This third evening, just as Kate was about 
to leave the Abbey farm for the night, Thys 
had asked her to^come back after having made 
her arrangements at home, under pretext that 
Uncle Jan wished for a warm bath, and that 
a great quantity of hot water would be wanted 
for that purpose. Accordingly, as soon as she 
had put Mieken to bed she returned. Now, 
however, she was told that the old man had 
changed his mind about the bath; but that 
nevertheless it would be well she should stay, 
for that fever had come on, and it was very 
possible the doctor might have to be fetched in 
the course of the night; perhaps even — only, 
however, in order to run no risk — the priest 
too. Not, Thys said, that Uncle Jan seemed 
materially worse than he had been, but he was 
an old man, wellnigh worn out, and without 
much power of rallying left in him. It would 


THE MISER. 


165 


be most prudent, therefore,* to have some one 
at hand in case of need ; contrary to all expecta- 
tion, his case might suddenly become serious. 

All this dust thrown in the widow’s eyes had 
not, however, entirely blinded her. Her con- 
clusion was that' the old man’s illness was in 
truth much more serious than she had been 
made to believe; and she determined that, if 
the night did not bring her some satisfaction on 
this head, she would in the morning at once 
break with Thys and bring the rector and the 
burgomaster about his ears, and so, with the 
aid of the spiritual and temporal authorities, 
arrive at a solution of this mystery of iniquity. 

She was sitting alone by the fireplace, medi- 
tating on the best way of bringing the matter 
before the authorities, so that they should plainly 
see their way in the unrighteous plot that was 
being played off at the Abbey farm for depriving 
Cecilia of her lawful inheritance. Perhaps the 
rector would not refuse making an attempt to 
bring back the old man to a sense of justice; 
and in that way she might be able to effect that 
for her benefactors which, while she remained 
in the house, would be totally beyond her reach, 
seeing that up to this time she had never once 
succeeded in obtaining sight of the sick man. 

But in the midst of her deliberations the fear 
crossed her mind that next morning might per- 
haps be too late ; for who could tell what might 
be going on up-stairs between Thys and the old 
L 


166 


THE MISER. 


man? This doubt threw her into a fever-fit 
of restlessness and anxiety. From time to time 
she rose from her seat, and, stepping on tiptoe 
into the passage which led toward Uncle Jan’s 
chamber, with noiseless tread she approached the 
foot of the staircase; but, after listening there 
for some time with all her ears, she heard no- 
thing, every thing up-stairs remaining in perfect 
quiet; she presently, therefore, returned to the 
sitting-room,' and continued her meditations by 
the fireside. 

And now the note of midnight is sounding 
from the tower of the village church. One by 
one, sadly and solemnly, the strokes reverberate 
through space ; one by one they die away upon 
the ear, till the deepest stillness of the season 
again prevails. In Uncle Jan’s chamber burns 
a small metal lamp, dimly flickering, with dense 
smoke and lurid flame. Dismal, unearthly even, 
is the scene; the imperfect light leaves the 
corners all in gloom; the very walls are not 
distinctly visible. The room has thus the effect 
of a mere portion of space — of space endless 
and boundless as eternity. 

Only a part of the bed and of the table which 
stands by it receives the blood-red illumination 
of the lamp. The old man is lying on his side, 
with his face toward the table; he seems to 
sleep ; nevertheless, from time to time he me- 
chanically opens his eyes, but only just as 
mechanically to shut them again immediately. 


THE MISER. 


167 


His countenance is ghastly; the skull, apparent 
in all its angularity, is covered only with a thin 
transparent skin, stretched, as it were, over the 
bones; his eyes are glassy and lifeless, his lips 
colorless. Only from the red flame of the lamp 
flickers across his face a tinge of lurid color, 
such as the last rays of this earth’s light might 
shed over the ashy cheeks of a corpse already 
laid out for the grave. 

By the table sits Thys, who, intending to watch 
beside the sick man, has fallen fast asleep, with 
his head against the hack of the chair. 

His ill-favored features, too, are in the light. 
Even now, when relaxed in sleep, his visage tells 
plainly of the evil soul within ; and his great mouth 
bears permanently impressed upon it a malicious 
smile. Ever and anon his lips contract or his brow 
creases ; nervous twitchings, more than sufficiently 
expressive of ill-feeling and annoyance, flit across 
his countenance. He is evidently dreaming. 

The aged sufferer has again opened his eyes, 
and now notices the significant play of feature 
which so unfavorably betrays the hidden work- 
ings of the sleeper’s mind. With mingled terror 
and aversion he keeps his eyes fixed upon the ill- 
omened spectacle, and consciousness and reflection 
awaken in him as he contemplates it. 

He casts his eyes around the gloomy cham- 
ber, then upon the lamp, with its faint, dim 
light flickering through the darkness like the 
marsh-lights which mislead the traveller on his 


168 


THE MISER. 


way, then back upon Thys, whose face he again 
fixedly contemplates with inexpressible terror, 
and who now, still in sleep, grinds his teeth, and 
draws back his lips like a dog about to bite ; while 
the whole expression of his countenance is so cruel, 
so murderous, that the sick old man shudders 
and shuts his eyes, till again impelled to open them 
by a new incident. 

From the sleeper’s lips sounds begin to be heard ; 
he seems to he speaking. Now the expression of 
his features is totally changed; all trace of an- 
noyance has disappeared: he smiles, and seems 
elated. He is in fact speaking, while his eyes are 
still closed in sleep ; not all, however, is articulate, 
and sometimes his voice sinks and his lips move 
in dumb show merely. Such broken sentences as 
these drop from them : — 

“A cellar — a hundred thousand guilders — the 
old skinflint — I’ll give you plenty, plenty! By 
to-morrow he’s dead ! — Meat, indeed! — no, not for 
him ! water, bread, — he won’t die, — a little starv- 
ing will help him. — I have his will ; — patience, he’s 
going now; that’s his last sigh; he’s dying ! — Ha, 
ha! all his money’s mine !” 

But here a terrible cry burst from the old man’s 
breast; and immediately Thys started from his 
sleep, sprang convulsively to his feet, rubbed his 
eyes, and stared with astonishment at Uncle Jan, 
who was shouting for help with all his might and 
making the room re-echo with his cries. 

Thys’s first care was to assure himself that he 


THE MISER. 


169 


had nothing to fear from without ; and, this once 
ascertained, he had little difficulty in divining the 
cause of the old man’s terror ; the less so, as from 
the nervous excitement in which he felt himself 
he could well imagine he had been talking in his 
sleep. As for Uncle Jan’s cries, Thys let him go 
on with them, till in a few moments mere exhaus- 
tion brought them to a pause ; regarding him 
intently the while, with arms folded on his chest 
and a savage smile upon his lips. 

“ Well, Uncle Jan, have you done yet ?” at last he 
said ; “ make as much noise as you like, pray ; scream 
and cry out-as you will ; no one will hear you.” 

But the old man, whose terror was increased by 
the expression of Thys’s countenance, recommenced 
his cries for help with desperate energy. It 
seemed as though the fear of death had given him 
new strength ; his movements now showed some- 
thing of vigor, and his voice was clear and far- 
reaching. 

“Be still!” cried Thys, holding his clenched fist 
menacingly in the old man’s face; “be still, or 
I’ll soon stop your mouth for you !” 

Uncle Jan ceased his cries, and Thys withdrew 
his fist. 

“Let me just hear you again !” he said, savagely. 

The old man was now silent, from want of breath 
perhaps as much as from fear, for his chest heaved 
violently ; but all the while he kept his eyes fixed 
on Thys with an expression of intense abhorrence. 

“Well,” presently resumed the latter, jeeringly, 
15 


170 


THE MISER. 


“ am I to know at last what wasp it is that has 
stnng you? I suppose I’ve been dreaming? Are 
you out of your wits, to make such a to-do about 
it? You’d better be trying to get to sleep: that 
would do you more good than all these foolish 
pranks.” 

At these words the old man’s indignation broke 
forth anew. 

“You serpent!” he exclaimed. “Ah, you mean 
me to die of hunger up here, like a dog, do you ? 
I live too long for you ? Bread and water are to 
finish me, bit by bit ? you’ll starve me ? you want 
my money, and so I must die, murderer?” 

Thys scanned the furious old man all in asto- 
nishment, not unmingled with affright, for now 
he saw that his iniquities lay open in their full 
atrocity. Uncle Jan went on : — 

“But you sha’n’t get it! You thought there 
would be an end of me this night ! no, no ! God 
will give me life and strength to punish you, you 
villain ! In the morning, this very morning, I’ll 
make a new will ; and you shall have nothing, 
you ! nothing but my curse! Yes, in the morning 
I’ll send for Cecilia, and the notary, and witnesses ; 
yes, and the gendarmes, too, to take you to prison. 
I’ll complain against you, and have you punished, 
I will. Ah, you thought I was dying ! you shall 
see !” 

“ Ha, ha !” answered Thys, with a sarcastic laugh ; 
“ who will hear you, pray ?” 

“ It will be daylight presently, and I’ll call and 


THE MISER. 


1T1 


cry out loud enough and long enough, that some 
one shall hear me.” 

A long pause ensued, while Thys, without utteiv 
ing a syllable, bent his eyes steadfastly upon those 
of the old man, whose last words seemed to make 
a most earnest impression upon him. At first his 
countenance was serious, as of one in deep reflec- 
tion ; hut gradually the ill-boding smile again con- 
tracted his lips, and he came closer up to the bed. 
He pushed the table on one side, stood hard by the 
bed’s head with his arms crossed, and, in a scornful 
tone, — 

“I can’t help laughing at your absurdity !” he 
began. 44 Do you think that I’ve been your slave 
for ten years — have fawned upon you like a dog 
for ten years — for love of you? do you think that 
I’ve been living these ten years on dirt and swine’s 
husks for my own pleasure ? do you think that I’ve 
been dragging out the ten best years of my life in 
this dismal dog-hole because I’d no taste for enjoy- 
ing life ? do you think that I’ve been making a 
hypocrite, a cheat, a scoundrel — or any thing else 
you like to call it — of myself, all for nothing, and 
without the hope of being in some way repaid for 
it ? Why, you must think me simpler and more 
stupid than a baby ! No, no ! I’ve sacrified for 
you my own will and way, all my inclinations, my 
honesty, my life, my very soul ; and now you must 
pay me for it ! — pay me in hard cash !” 

44 Not a stiver !” murmured the old man, passion- 
ately. 


172 


THE MISER. 


“Not a stiver!” repeated the other; “that’s 
easy enough for you to say ; but are you quite out 
of your senses? have you no fear of what you 
may provoke me to ? You forget that I have you 
as completely at my mercy here as if we were alone 
together in a desert, and that there’s no one to see 
what means I take of enforcing payment. You 
call me villain and murderer ; but you can’t be- 
lieve your own words, that you thus irritate the 
lion that can devour you — yes, devour you, if 
you don’t satisfy his hunger! and I hunger after 
your money, Uncle Jan ; so satisfy me — satisfy 
me, or ” 

And as he uttered these last words his eyes 
flashed so ferociously upon his victim that the 
old man fell back upon the bed with a shriek of 
terror. 

“ Satisfy me ! satisfy me !” Thys went on, now 
quite beside himself, and grinding his clenched 
teeth together with all the air of murderous resolve. 

“ Oh, my God, help !” cried the sick man, ex- 
tending his trembling hands. “ Thys, Thys, what 
is it you want ?” 

“Your keys I want!” thundered Thys ; “your 
keys!” 

The old man made no answer to this demand ; 
but it seemed to inspire him with greater terror 
than all the threats that had gone before it. With 
feverish haste he drew both hands under the bed- 
clothes ; every limb seemed on the stretch, as though 
in position for resisting an attack. 


THE MISER. 


173 


“Ha, ha!” cried Thys, U I know well enough 
you’ll give me your soul sooner than your keys ; 
but I must and will have them ; yes, if I have to 
wrench your hand from your body with them ! 
Come, give them me ! give them me !” 

And he threw himself upon the sick old man, 
thrust his hand under the bedclothes, and pro- 
ceeded to search there for the keys. But, do what 
he would, — snatch, pull, wrest, strike, — yes, do 
what he would, — the old man’s hands clutched the 
keys with so desperate a grasp that in very truth 
it would have been easier to wrench the arms from 
his body than the object of the struggle out of his 
fingers. 

Baffled and weary, Thys let go his hold of the 
keys, and for the moment desisted from his attack, 
and at this moment it was perhaps that a thought 
of deeper horror first distinctly entered his 
mind. Again he stood beside the bed, and with 
heaving chest looked fixedly upon the old man, 
who still kept his keys hidden away beneath the 
bedclothes. 

And presently his countenance gradually as- 
sumed a new and indescribable expression, — an 
expression at once so extravagant and so devilish 
that the habitual brutality and malice of his phy- 
siognomy sank back into tameness by contrast 
with its present outbreak of delirious ferocity. 
The muscles of his cheeks worked spasmodically ; 
his teeth ground audibly together ; a livid paleness 
overspread his visage; his hair bristled like a 
15 * M 


174 


THE MISER. 


hyena’s mane. In a voice hoarse with passion he 
exclaimed, — 

“ Ha, yon won’t pay me, won’t you ? If you 
won’t alive, you shall dead, then; so here’s for 
you,” 

He sprang like a wild beast upon the bed, and, 
bending down over the sick man, with both elbows 
forcefully compressed his chest. A rattling sound 
of frighful import issued from the victim’s throat, 
a sharp convulsion ran through all his limbs, which 
presently relaxed, and then all was still. Thys 
seized the bunch of keys, and with a single pluck 
broke the string by which they were fastened round 
Uncle Jan’s neck; then he slowly came down 
from the bed. 

And now there he stood, leaning with one hand 
upon the table, quivering with agitation and 
fatigue, and with the terror of the thought that 
the noise of the struggle might have been audible 
below. His eyes were fixed upon the lifeless 
body ; a cold sweat trickled down his forehead and 
his cheeks. Perhaps he repented him of what 
he had done, perhaps he trembled for the conse- 
quences. Whichever it might be, he stood for a 
considerable time as though struck with utter 
helplessness. At last, with a hideous groan, he 
mechanically took up the lamp, approached the 
door of the room, and opened it. 

A cry of terror burst from his lips. Before 
him stood the widow, with a look of interrogation 
upon her countenance ! Perhaps from behind 


THE MISER. 


175 


the door, through the keyhole, she had 'heard, 
had seen, all that had passed ! 

Fiercely he glared upon her, while she seemed 
totally at a loss to account for his disturbed air; 
he even raised his hand as though to brain her 
with the bunch of keys. 

“"What do you want here?” he howled. 

“I thought I heard you call me,” she answered, 
retreating, and evidently preparing for flight ; “ or 
was it Uncle Jan that called? Well, well, there’s 
no need to be so angry; I can go as I came.” 

Thys let fall his hand with the keys, at the 
same time stammering out, — 

“ Uncle Jan has had a stroke; I believe he’s 
dead. Go to him — no, go down and fasten all the 
doors — but first see if he is dead, though — get 
some vinegar.” 

In his confusion he no longer knew what he 
was saying, so violent a revulsion in his whole 
nervous system had ensued upon his ruthless 
deed. With wavering steps he now approached 
a massive door, found, after some search, the 
right key, and passed into a long dark corridor 
which ran along the whole length of the building, 
from one end to the other. The lamp threw its 
light on but a small portion of the walls, and sur- 
rounded him with a dim sphere of illumination, 
without effectually dispelling the darkness. 

On he went, stumbling and feeling his way 
through these unknown localities. Already were 
his terrors and his conscience holding up to his 


176 


THE MISER. 


troubled imagination the righteous judgment of 
God upon his deed. How much greater would 
those terrors have been could he have seen the 
human shadow which crept after him from afar 
in the deep gloom of the corridor ! 

Probably indeed he may have heard some sus- 
picious sounds behind him, for he stopped and 
looked back. Eventually, however, he proceeded 
on his way, till again stopped by another door 
of singular construction. The portal was low 
and arched; the door itself so thickly set with 
iron plates and bestudded with huge nails that 
barely was the wood visible beneath them. Seve- 
ral padlocks of unusual size, red with rust, hung 
from it; a bar, or rather massive beam, of iron, 
added a last security to the miser’s treasury. 

With throbbing heart, and not without much 
labor and pains, Thys opened the locks and re- 
moved all obstacles. He descended a flight of 
steps, and found himself in an extensive cellar. 
And now, at last, arrived at the hiding-place of 
the old man’s hoards, the evil-doer thought no 
more of his evil deed; his conscience held its 
peace; his fears entirely left him. The only feel- 
ing for which his heart now had room was .the 
burning desire after the sight of gold, the touch 
of gold, the possession of gold. On his counte- 
nance beamed a smile of transport; in his eyes 
glowed the fire of passionate longing. 

With the lamp in his hand, he walked round 
the cellar, searching as he went; but, to his no 


THE MISER. 


177 


little consternation, nothing could he discern hut 
the four hare walls, and, near the foot of the 
steps, a large stone, which had evidently served 
for a seat. He began to quake in all his limbs ; 
his countenance fell with anxiety and vexation. 

“ What!” he dejectedly murmured; “can it be 
that the gold is not here? And yet there’s no 
other way out. Impossible ! Ah, what do I see 
there in the wall ? isn’t that a keyhole ?” 

Laughing aloud, and beside himself for joy, he 
hurried up to the point in the wall which had 
attracted his attention, audibly venting his elation 
as he sought out the right key, and at last opened 
a hidden cavity in the wall. 

“ Ha, ha! here lies the treasure ! See ! see, three 
bags! four — five hags! G-old! gold!” 

With trembling hands and inward exultation 
he took one of the linen bags out of its hiding- 
place, and was about to undo the string with 
which it was fastened ; but all at once he started 
with a sudden fright ; the bag fell from his hand. 
He turned toward the entrance of the vault, and 
listened with trembling anxiety ; it seemed to 
him as though he had heard a noise in that direc- 
tion, — a noise as of the creaking of iron. 

For a few moments he stood motionless and 
nervously listening; not the slightest sound could 
he catch. Gradually he recovered from his fright ; 
he took the -bag up again from the ground, ob- 
serving, as he did so, — 

“Ah, it is nothing! the bolt of tfie lock, I sup- 


178 


THE MISER. 


pose, that hadn’t quite shut at first. So, now 
for it !” 

An d he opened the hag and hastily clutched 
at its contents. But how was the expression of 
his countenance changed! what dismay at once 
and contempt did it tell of, when his eyes fell 
upon the handful of pieces which his eager grasp 
brought out ! 

“ Copper!” he muttered; “ copper!” and he let 
the bag fall, to seize another. 

“ Copper! nothing but copper!” he again ex- 
claimed, with growing agitation. 

And each time that he opened a fresh bag it 
was ever and again the mortifying word “ copper !” 
that fell from his lips. 

As he proceeded in this agitating search, his 
cheeks grew pale ; the, sweat of anguish burst forth 
upon his brow; his chest heaved violently, la- 
boring for breath. At last he took up the last 
bag; his legs trembling under him with un- 
strung joints, he undid the last string. Again 
•the agonizing cry “Copper! copper!” burst from 
his struggling breast. 

While with his left hand he convulsively griped 
and wrung the fatal bag which had so inexorably 
put to naught his last hope of a golden booty, 
his right was with feverish haste travelling round 
the interior of the receptacle and closely investi- 
gating its sides in the hope of some further dis- 
covery. But it was empty ; no trace of any thing 
more did the anxious fingers meet. Not yet satisfied, 


THE MISER. 


179 


he placed the lamp within the hollow, and pain- 
fully scanned it on every side with the narrowest 
scrutiny. But all in vain ; nothing could he see ; 
— nothing but the plain well-joined stone of the 
wall. 

A dismal groan gurgled up through his throat. 
With unsteady steps he approached the great 
stone. Utterly unnerved, he sat down upon it, and 
set the lamp beside him on the door. There for 
some time he sat, with his head leaned upon his 
hand and his eyes bent with glassy stare upon 
the vacant gloom around. Then, in a tone of 
mingled dismay and rage, he broke out, — 

“ A few pounds of copper! And so that’s to 
he the price of my ten years’ slavery and misery ! 
And the price, too, of a murder ! — of my immortal 
soul ! Oh, that Uncle Jan ! the villain ! the hypo- 
crite ! the thief! Yes, he has cheated me ! — robbed 
me ! And so that’s what my long-expected for- 
tune is come to ! — my wealth, my life of pleasure, 
my rise in the world ! — a heap of coppers ! And, 
curse upon it, for that I’ve murdered him ! But 
didn’t he deserve it? Murdered him, indeed! 
why, I ought to have torn him to shreds !— and 
slowly, too ! I should have tortured him ! the 
false villain !” 

He ceased to speak. Quivering with agitation, 
he fixed his eyes upon the ground. Soon tears 
began to overflow from his eyes; the cowardly 
villain wept and sobbed like a child. However, 
it was not for long that this fit of depression had 


180 


THE MISER. 


the mastery over him. With a horrible curse 
he sprang from his seat, seized the bag which 
lay at his feet, and, howling inarticulately in 
delirious fury, dashed it, heavy as it was, to the 
farthermost corner of the vault. As the mass 
of coin struck the ground, a hollow sound was 
returned. 

“Ha!” cried Thy s, with joyful surprise, “ha! 
what is that?” 

Beside himself with renewed hope, he hastily 
sprang forward, the lamp in his hand, and threw 
himself on his knees upon the floor of the cellar, 
rapping hither and thither with his knuckles, 
and nodding with his head in glad response to 
the hollow sounds he elicited. In a few moments 
he had opened a little trap, which disclosed an 
excavation in the floor, and in it a number of 
linen bags evidently full of coin. With a sort 
of sensual delight he gloated upon the treasure. 

“The silly cheat!” he muttered, as he took 
out one of the bags ; “ so he’d set a trap ? and 
baited it too ? hidden some copper where it 
couldn’t but be found? But his device hasn’t 
had much success ; here must be the stuff.” 

Then, “ Gold ! Ah ! that is gold !” he suddenly 
exclaimed, in a voice strangely resembling a 
child’s cry of exultation ; “ gold ! And this next ? 
what will that be ? Ah, gold ! again gold ! And 
the third ? Gold ! nothing but gold !” 

One after another he thus extracted and opened 
all the bags, till the cavity was entirely empty ; 


THE MISER. 


181 


then, somewhat retreating, he sat down upon 
the ground, and, forgetful of all beside, began to 
shake out the contents of the bags into one great 
heap before him. For some time he kept his 
eyes undeviatingly bent upon the golden store, 
with a radiant expression upon his countenance, 
as had heaven and all its glories suddenly stood 
open to his view ; an expression, in fact, of trans- 
cendental felicity, narrowly trenching upon the 
idiotic. 

“Ha, ha!” he muttered; “that looks well! 
How it glances ! it’s downright alive with splen- 
dor and with glory ! And so much of it ! But 
it’s the price of my soul! Well, and a good 
price for it, too ! more than it’s fairly worth ! 
Ha, ha! now for life and jollity and enjoyment! 
now for being master and having servants, for 
eating and drinking and riding in my carriage ! 
now for power and obsequious friends, and for 
crushing into the dust whatever won’t bow down 
before me ! All that lies here in this gold, — this 
glittering mass of soulless metal. Oh, let me touch 
it, feel it, possess it !” 

And, quite beside himself, he began to rout 
with his fingers in the gold, while incoherent 
exclamations of delight fell from his lips; and 
then he began to count over the money again 
and again, apparently without any precise purpose 
or consciousness. 

Entranced in this occupation, or rather play, 
and in entire forgetfulness of all else, he spent a 
16 


182 


THE MISER. 


considerable time, till aroused from it by a sen- 
sible waning of the light from the lamp. Then 
suddenly his countenance resumed a serious 
expression; he cast his eyes anxiously around, 
stood up, and rubbed his forehead as seeking 
to collect his scattered thoughts, muttering the 
while, — 

“But what was it I came here for? Have I 
lost my senses ? Ah, yes ! quick ! I must hide the 
gold in some other place, where no one but 
myself can find it. But I must make haste ; the 
light’s going out.” 

He filled two of the largest bags with gold, 
took up one under each arm, and thus, loaded 
almost to sinking, mounted the steps. At the 
door he set down his burden and proceeded to 
unlock the door. But, though the key turned 
readily enough and the bolt of the lock shot 
back, the door refused to open, even when he put 
forth all his force against it: immovable it re- 
mained, like a piece of the wall itself. 

Thys began to tremble, and an icy thrill ran 
through all his limbs. Still he could not, he 
would not, believe his fear, and went on making 
violent efforts to open the door. He forced the 
key backward in the lock ; he set his back against 
the door and essayed with all his might to force 
it from its hinges. He strove and struggled till 
the sweat trickled from his brow. But all in 
vain ; nothing even gave him the shadow of a 
hope. At last, wearied and exhausted, he stood 


THE MISER. 


183 


as annihilated before the door, and his head 
drooping in despair upon his chest. 

“Frightful!” he exclaimed; “fastened on the 
outside ! But no ; that cannot be ; I must be mis- 
taken; who should have done it? Kate? But 
there’s the share she’s looking for from me. 
Heavens, the light’s going! the lamp’s out! quick, 
one trial more !” 

And again he put the key into the lock, and 
wrenched and wrested at it so long and with 
such fevered violence that his hands were covered 
with grazes and bruises, while hack, knees, and 
shoulders too, ached painfully with the strain 
they were put to. A harsh, dry rattle in the 
throat accompanied the hopeless labor; all was 
in vain ; the door stood fast as a rock. 

Convinced at last that no efforts could avail to 
release him, Thys descended the steps and ran 
madly up and down in the darkness of the cellar, 
— a very Egyptian darkness, — in which not the 
faintest gleam or glimmer of" light was per- 
ceptible, — a darkness as of a closed sepulchre. 

Presently the wretch began to tear his hair 
and to dig his nails into his cheeks and forehead ; 
then he strode along the floor from one corner 
of the vault to the other, as seeking some hidden 
outlet for escape. He groaned, he wept, he 
blasphemed, he stormed with incoherent words 
and inarticulate, cries ; then he mounted again 
upon the steps, and through the keyhole called 
upon Kate by name. Again he dashed his body 


184 


THE MISER. 


with all its force and all its weight against the 
door, and again descended into the cellar and 
ran round and round about it till utterly wearied 
out. At last his foot struck against the great 
stone, and he sank down upon it quite exhausted. 

“And so this is the end?” he muttered, in 
his despair; “the end of all my striving? For 
the sake of gold I’ve made myself a fiend! 
have become a murderer! and now here I sit 
in this dark vault, where no one can hear me; 
and here, perhaps, — perhaps I shall die here, — die 
of hunger ! Horrible ! If that should be God’s 
counsel against me ! It was so that I thought to 
kill IJncle Jan — by starvation ! And to die thus in 
the midst of gold ! to pine away and perish upon 
heaps of gold ! to have the key to all this world’s 
joys and glories in my hands, and to die like 
a dog, and then to burn forever in the fire of 
hell ; and here on earth to be cried out upon at 
once, with curses and ridicule, as a villain too 
stupid to reap the fruits of his villany ! A curse 
upon it !” 

A dismal echo from the vaulted roof responded 
to the imprecation, and when that died away the 
silence remained long unbroken. Then again 
groans and sobs might have been heard through 
the darkness, sounds of weeping and of gnashing 
of teeth. 

Thys had now sat for some considerable time 
upon his stone; more than once he had risen 
from it and returned to it; when, at last, all at 


THE MISER. 


185 


once a ray of light flashed upon the wall, which 
seemed to descend into the cellar through the 
keyhole of the door. Joyfully he sprang from 
his seat, hastily he mounted the steps, and then, 
with his lips to the keyhole, and quivering with 
renewed hope : — 

“Kate, dear Kate,” he cried, “is that you?’ 

“It’s I, sure enough,” was the answer he 
received. 

“Ah, Kate, just see what’s the matter with 
the door on the outside: it won’t open.” 

“I should think not. I’ve fastened it with the 
great bar,” was the reply. 

“You fastened it? Why? Kate, dear Kate, 
don’t play tricks with me; for God’s sake open 
the door.” 

“Do you think it likely?” answered the voice 
from without. “Here have I got a venomous 
beast in a trap, and do you think I’m going to 
let it out to bite me and every one else that 
comes in its way? Make an act of repentance, 
Thys ; it’s all over with you ; God and poor 
Kate have come up with you in the end.” 

How at last Thys saw into the widow’s inten- 
tions, and again a shiver of terror came upon 
him. With faltering voice he cried, — 

“ Kate, I’ve a bag of gold here for you.” 

“ I’ll have nothing to do with the stolen 
money.” 

“ Two bags, Kate ! Ah, open the door ! do 
open it !” 

16 * 


186 


THE MISER. 


This time there was no answer. He resumed : — 

“Kate, you shall have four bags. Listen, 
listen ! it’s all of it gold !” 

And he let a handful of the coin roll upon' 
the steps, in the hope that the chink of it might 
yet tempt her. 

A mocking laugh responded to the seductive 
sound. 

“Kate,” he began again, imploringly, “I’ll 
marry you, and we’ll share the whole fortune 
together. There’s so much of it ! — oh, so much !” 

“Thief! murderer! villain!” was all the reply 
he could elicit. 

“Ah, Kate,” he went on, in a piteous tone, 
“here I am upon my knees in the darkness, 
holding out my trembling hands to you for help. 
Have compassion with me! be merciful! open 
the door, and I will love you and be grateful to 
you my life long.” 

“ I have compassion with you !” answered 
Kate. 

“Ah!” he cried, with reawakened hope, “I 
knew you would let me out !” 

“I have compassion with you,” the widow 
repeated, jeeringly; “just as much compassion 
as you had with Cecilia. I am merciful toward 
you, just as you were toward Uncle Jan, your 
benefactor. But that’s not what I came here for, 
Thys; I came to show you something. Look 
through the keyhole at what I have in my hands ; 
and look what I am goingto do.” 


THE MISER. 


187 


Thys put his eye to the keyhole, and, as the 
light was on the outside, could see pretty well 
what was going on there. Unfolding a paper, 
Kate went on : — 

“Do you see this? You murdered the sick 
old man because you’d got him to make a will 
that gave you every thing and he didn’t die 
soon enough for you; and now you think the 
property can’t slip through your fingers. The 
will was in your bedroom, in the bottom drawer 
of the chest. Kate is poor, but she has learned 
to read; so, now, listen.” 

And she read out distinctly, word for word, — 

“ I hereby give all my estate and effects what- 
soever to Charles Dominic Matthias and I 

declare this to be my last will and testament.” 

“ My will ! my will!” howled Thys, in despair. 

“Look now what I’m going to do,” pursued the 
beggar-woman. 

“Heavens! heavens!” he cried; “she’s tearing 
it to pieces ! My hope, my life ! You’re murder- 
ing me, Kate !” 

By a slight movement of the light he perceived 
that she was preparing to depart. Making one 
last effort, he cried, in a piercing tone, — 

“Kate, Kate! ah, don’t go! Open the door! 
do open it ! You’re never going to let me perish 
with hunger in this horrible vault?” 

“It would only be God’s righteous judgment 
on you,” she replied, “if I were to let you die as 
you intended Uncle Jan should die; but such a 


188 


TIIE MISER. 


death is too good for you. You’ll be let out 
directly. I’ve been to the burgomaster, and he 
has sent the constable to fetch people that will 
open the cellar and let you out, but with your 
hands tied behind you. It’s to go to prison that 
you’ll come out. It’s upon the scaffold that you 
must die — die as a murderer, and as a murderer 
appear before God, who knows what a fiend of 
wickedness you are.” 

Thys heard his sentence as though struck with 
sudden petrifaction. All trembling, he continued 
to watch through the keyhole while Kate and 
her light gradually retired along the passage. 
As the last gleam of the lamp disappeared be- 
fore his eye, a frightful cry burst from him. 
Presently his vital energies failed him ; he rolled 
to the foot of the steps, and there lay, stretched 
like a corpse on the floor of the vault. 


THE MISER. 


189 


CHAPTER IX. 

The first early dawn was shedding its gray light 
into the chamber in which Thys had carried out 
his murderous plot against Uncle Jan’s life. Two 
candles of yellow wax stood burning on the table 
beside a crucifix, together with a palm-branch in a 
vessel of holy water. 

There lay the body on the bed, stretched out 
upon its back. To look on the pale and collapsed 
features no one would have doubted but that the 
last spark of life had long since been extinguished, 
and that the body was in fact a corpse. Neverthe- 
less, this judgment would have been premature, 
for the chest still heaved, — heaved, indeed, as in 
death’s last agony, as in the soul’s last hard struggle 
to release herself from the bonds of earth. 

At the bed’s head stood a maiden, bending for- 
ward over the old man’s face, watching with fever- 
ish anxiety every breath he drew, now quivering 
with hope, now melting in grief, as he gave signs 
of coming to himself or of falling off into insen- 
sibility. 

It was Cecilia, who for^n hour past, amid floods 
of silent tears, and all but exhausted with suffer- 
ing, had been endeavoring with the tenderest 
N 


190 


THE MISER. 


cares to recall her poor old uncle to life. Wanna 
stood near her beside the bed, ready to co-operate 
in her efforts to arrest the departing soul. Farther 
off, in a corner of the room, Bart and his mother 
were kneeling, murmuring with folded hands an 
earnest prayer to God. 

The rector had already visited the sick man and 
administered extreme unction. The doctor had 
also been called in, and had soon perceived that it 
was chiefly want of proper food that had brought 
the sufferer to this pass ; he had therefore ordered 
that broth should be given him, spoonful by spoon- 
ful, together with some medicine which he pre- 
scribed. On the table by the bed stood a basin 
and a phial, in which the medicaments in question 
were contained. Already had Cecilia cautiously 
dribbled a good many spoonfuls of the broth into 
the old man’s mouth, and seemed to herself to 
perceive that it did him good, and that it gradually 
went down his throat more and more easily, as 
though the patient himself relished it and sucked 
it in. 

And now she again set the spoon to his mouth, 
and, after having slowly poured in its contents, was 
about to take it away, when it seemed to her as 
though she could discern a slight movement in the 
old man’s lips. A thrill of agitation ran through 
her at the thought. She tried him again with 
another spoonful ; he swallowed it with an unmis- 
takable play in the muscles of the throat. 

Quivering with hope, and quite beside herself, 


THE MISER. 


191 


the maiden followed up the doses of broth, all 
the while anxiously watching her patient’s counte- 
nance. Presently, and all suddenly, a convulsive 
vibration seemed to run throughout his limbs ; 
he stretched himself out, then remained motion- 
less; his respiration seemed utterly at a stand- 
still. 

A cry burst from Cecilia’s bosom, — a cry of terror 
and of anguish, that at once frightened up Bart 
and his mother from their knees and brought them 
hurrying to the bedside. There lay Cecilia with 
her head upon the old man’s bosom, sobbing aloud 
and copiously bedewing it with her warm tears ; 
breaking forth ever and anon into sharp exclama- 
tions of grief and pain, or showering down 
kisses upon the cold lips of him whose death she 
mourned. 

But soon again another cry burst from her, this 
time one of surprise and joy. Uncle Jan had 
moved his lips, was opening and shutting his mouth 
as though his body was mechanically craving after 
food. She jumped up, and with feverish haste 
poured into his mouth two or three spoonfuls of 
the broth in rapid succession. In her j oy she would 
probably thus have given him the whole basinful, 
if the remembrance of the physician’s warning 
had not held her hand. Bearing these in mind, 
she laid the spoon down again, again approached 
her face closely to that of the old man, and nar- 
rowly watched the effect of this fresh dose of 
nourishment. 


192 


THE MISER. 


Suddenly the sick man’s eyes opened, but still 
fell as if unconsciously upon the sweet countenance 
that so delightedly smiled upon him. 

“ Uncle ! father ! you live ! Thanks, oh thou 
merciful God!” Cecilia ejaculated, in a voice fal- 
tering with emotion. 

Again he closed his eyes, again for a while he 
lay motionless as a corpse. Then he opened them 
anew upon the maiden, and for a long time kept 
them intently fixed upon hers, as though question- 
ing his memory who she might be. Impercept- 
ibly his arm began to move ; he slowly brought it 
round the maiden’s neck, drew her head down to 
him, and kissed her, while almost inaudibly he 
spoke, — 

“ Cecilia!” 

This kiss, the sound of his voice, of her own 
name uttered by it, seemed to strike Cecilia with 
overpowering emotion. Releasing herself gently 
but hastily from the circling arm, a Pray, oh pray !” 
she cried to the others who stood with her by the 
bed, threw herself upon her knees before the cru- 
cifix, and raised her hands in thanks to the image 
of the dying Savior. 

Then for some moments she remained immersed 
in the most fervent prayer, then sprang to her feet 
again and returned to the bed. She found the old 
man lying upon his side, looking round the room 
with unsteady and wondering gaze; he pointed 
with his finger at the three figures which were still 
on their knees upon the floor. 


THE MISER. 


193 


“Who ?” he inquired, with feeble voice. 

“ Oh God, oh God ! he lives ! he speaks ! he’ll 
recover ! my poor uncle, my kind father !” Cecilia 
cried, seizing both his hands in hers and pressing 
them with the most earnest affection. 

The sick man smiled sweetly upon her ; then he 
again turned an inquiring look upon the kneeling 
figures. 

“ It’s Bart, — Bart, who is praying for you, dear 
uncle,” she said, “ and his mother and his sister 
Wanna ; they are all sending up prayers to God 
for your recovery.” 

“Bart?” murmured the old man, as though not 
comprehending what he heard; “Bart? he pray- 
ing here ? and for me ?” 

“Come! come!” the maiden cried; “Bart! 
Mother Ann, don’t you hear ? my uncle’s recover- 
ing ! he knows his poor Cecilia ! Come !” 

They all rose from their knees and approached 
the bed. The old man’s eyes wandered from face 
to face, to each in turn, and seemed to rest with 
especial attention upon the countenance of the 
youth who stood close by, his eyes streaming with 
tears of joy.. After a few moments Uncle Jan 
reached out his thin hand toward Bart, drew him 
slowly downward, downward till their lips met, 
and impressed with his upon those of the young 
man a kiss — the blessed kiss of reconciliation. 

Cecilia’s legs trembled under her; she was 
obliged to lean upon the table to save herself from 
falling. This demonstration of kindly feeling in 
17 


194 


THE MISER. 


her uncle had so affected her that she quivered in 
every limb and seemed ready to give way under 
the violence of her emotion. And not less were 
the others moved ; from the eyes of each and all 
gushed forth a new flood of tears. 

But now suddenly and hastily the beggar-woman 
entered the room, calling,— 

“Cecilia, Bart, Wanna! come quick! quick 
below 1” 

She approached the bed, beheld with astonish- 
ment the old man’s improved condition, and 
said, — 

“Ah ! thanks to God in heaven for that ! Mother 
Ann, stay you here ; — but Bart and Cecilia and 
Wanna must see my morning’s work to the end. 
Quick! come down all of you!” 

And as no one seemed to comprehend her, or 
made any movement toward following her, she 
caught Bart and Cecilia by the hand and drew 
them along with her out of the room. 

Below, in front of the house, stood a crowd of 
people waiting for something. They spoke with 
indignation and horror of the attempt at murder 
made by Thys upon the old man, and exulted in 
the thought that he was now about to receive 
the due reward of his wickedness. The gen- 
darmes had passed through the village, and the 
people had followed them to the Abbey farm. 

Cecilia and Bart stood with the widow in the 
room below, without knowing what spectacle it 
was that they were called upon to witness. Pre- 


THE MISER. 


195 


sently they heard in the passage which led to the 
back part of the building the tramp of heavy steps 
and clank of arms. While in astonishment and 
terror they listened to these unexpected sounds, 
and while Kate laughed triumphantly, two gen- 
darmes made their appearance in the room, and 
then two more with Thys between them, his hands 
tied behind him, his head hung down, pale, crushed 
into nothingness with shame, and trembling in 
every limb. 

At this spectacle Cecilia gave a loud cry, and 
instantly covered her eyes with her hands and 
turned her face toward the wall to escape it ; while 
Bart stared as though petrified at the frightful 
procession which went by him. 

“Look!” cried the widow, in exultation; “so 
God punishes the evil-doer, even if a poor beggar- 
woman must be the instrument of His purpose !” 

And as the gendarmes approached the door 
with their prisoner, she further exclaimed, — 

“Hypocritical villain! murderer! run, make 
haste ! the scatfold, the guillotine, are for you — 
and then, to close all, hell, — yes, hell and its 
eternal fire !” 

Thys was now led away by the otficers. But 
no sooner had the crowd collected outside caught 
sight of him than a universal and terrible cry of 
vengeance burst forth against him, which made 
him bow his head yet deeper upon his breast, 
trembling the while as though he felt that his last 
hour was striking. He was pale as a corpse, his 


196 


THE MISER. 


hair all in disorder, his clothes soiled and torn; 
on his hands showed the dried blood from recent 
wounds, the result of the superhuman efforts he 
had made to force the door of the vault from its 
hinges. 

The sight of this blood stimulated the rage of 
the assembled peasants to the pitch of madness ; 
they regarded it as the palpable evidence of his 
crime, and with terrible cries excited one another 
to present vengeance. Unquestionably they would 
have made a summary and terrible example of 
him, had not his captors met the danger by drawl- 
ing their swords and preparing to defend their 
prisoner resolutely in case of need. 

The sight of the flashing steel struck terror 
into the multitude, who now gave up the idea of 
taking the law into their own hands, but still fol- 
lowed the gendarmes into the village, crying ven- 
geance upon the murderer, and loading him with 
imprecations until he and his escort disappeared 
from their view along the road that led toward 
the town whither he was destined. 


Ten years have gone by since the events above 
narrated passed. The miser’s abode has changed 
its aspect, which is now that of a comfortable 
farm-house with extensive out-buildings. Three 
, horses and twelve cows occupy its stables ; farming- 
men and maid-servants are seen about the yard ; 


THE MISER. 


197 


the cheerful sounds of labor enliven it from morn- 
ing to night. The window-frames are painted 
green, the walls are repaired and whitewashed; 
every thing about tells of prosperity and comfort. 

When the sun shines there sits on the bench 
near the door an old man, whose tremulous hands 
bespeak his feebleness ; beside him an aged wo- 
man sits knitting. The old man plays with two 
little children, a boy and a girl, and lectures them 
about frugality, the true source of all wealth. 
These are the children of his niece Cecilia; Bart 
is their father, and the old woman is Mother Ann, 
whom they call grandmother. 

Old Uncle Jan has lent Bart money: — a good 
sum of money, and at right moderate interest, 
which is regularly paid him, and which he as 
regularly lays by for the little boy that sits upon 
his knee. He is so fond of the little boy ! — it is 
his pet, and is called, after him, Jan. He is so 
happy — the good uncle — in his old day ! True, he 
is always lamenting and finding fault over the 
excessive voracity of the servants and lavish scale 
of expenditure generally; but Bart and Cecilia 
let him talk, and take their own way, and so they 
are all satisfied. 

The poor Widow Kate lives at the Chapel 
farm ; her children are now growing up, and work 
away diligently. Bart helps her along; she has 
a good farm, and is quite in the way of being 
well to do in the world. 

Wanna is married to the head-gardener at the 
17 * 


198 


THE MISER. 


Manor-house; she lives in the midst of flowers, 
and is much in favor with her wealthy master 
and mistress. She too is contented and happy. 

The only one that is otherwise is the evil-doer, 
who will never leave the prison to which he is 
condemned till it may please God to call him 
before the eternal judgment-seat. 


THE END. 



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BY 


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BALTIMORE: 

MURPHY & CO., 182 BALTIMORE STREET. 
PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 




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EICKETICKETACK. 


CHAPTER L 

Not long since I paid a visit to tlie farm-house 
at which the story I am about to tell opens. It 
stands between Desschel and Milgem, eastward of 
Antwerp, on the great moor of Kempen ; and of 
the people who now live there hardly one re- 
members the name of Jan van Dael. 

The house and its immediate belongings strike 
the eye pleasantly ; — rather, however, in the way 
of picturesqueness than of beauty. The roof is 
old and covered with a rich growth of houseleek 
and green moss; the crumbling walls are half- 
concealed by a luxuriant vine ; the yard is enli- 
vened with fowls and pigeons ; and in a stable 
three cows, shining with cleanliness, munch the 
soft clover. 

But the landscape in which the farm lies has 
real beauty, after its kind. In front, an endless 
heath stretches away to the horizon ; behind the 
little flower-garden, a silver brook, fringed with 
willows and deep-green sappy-looking alders, 


6 


RICKETICKETACK. 


threads the moor, and farther down runs through 
a bit of scanty pasture ; the blue vault of heaven 
arches in the whole ; all round, the grasshoppers 
chirp unseen, and the birds trill a merrier note 
about this fair oasis in the wide waste of sand. 

It was a fine morning in the year 180T. The sun 
was still beneath the horizon; hardly was the 
silence broken by here and there a stray bird pre- 
luding to the full chorus of Nature’s morning 
concert. In the house and yard all was still too, 
only in one room there burned a small fire, lightly 
crackling in the wide fireplace ; the clock ticked 
on and on, and from a half-dark corner was heard 
the monotonous buzz of a spinning-wheel. 

At the wheel sat a girl. Her age, to judge by 
her looks, might be fifteen. She did not seem to 
have bestowed much pains on her dress — rather 
the reverse ; but her features had in them some- 
thing out of the common, — something of elevation, 
which might well fix attention and attract sym- 
pathy. Yet beauty she could not be said to 
possess, for she was marble-pale, and ever and 
anon her dark eyes flashed forth from under their 
long lashes with a harsh and repulsive expression. 
And yet, again, there were moments in which the 
black pupil wandered slowly and dreamily up and 
down, in which a glad smile lighted up her 
features, as if some spark of joy had suddenly 
kindled in her heart ; then she might indeed be 
called beautiful — an alabaster antitype of the 
flower which, slowly fading away, still opens its 


RICKETICKETACIv. 7 

cup to the sun while a worm has long ago gnawed 
its root. 

Already for an hour past she had been sitting 
at her wheel, mechanically passing the flax through 
her fingers. A deep reverie seemed to hang 
about her, like a thick cloud ; for her the world 
was not. An unearthly joy shone forth from 
her countenance. 

And what pleasant thoughts were they that 
thus warmed her heart ? That she could not have 
told herself. And now she opens her well-formed 
mouth; she sings. Does the song speak out her 
feelings ? If so, there must be a great deal in it. 
Sweet and clear, but low, is the voice, as of a 
silver bell in the distance; but the singular jingle 
of the tune contrasts strangely with the general 
effect. Here are the words : — 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

The iron’s warm ; 

Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

And as soon as the words are sung she sinks back 
into her reverie. 

While she thus sat at her wheel, unconscious 
of all about her, an elderly woman came down- 
stairs and entered the room. The look that she 
cast upon the expiring fire and the dreamer in the 
corner showed at once the mistress of the house. 
Her eyes flashed with anger ; she darted upon the 
o 


8 


RICKETICKETACK. 


spinner, and struck her so violent a box on the 
ear that the poor girl had nearly fallen from her 
chair. 

“ What’s this, you lazy lump? There you 
sit, staring before you like a stuck pig! Make 
up the fire directly, or I’ll be after you with a 
stick, and give it you well, you good-for-nothing 
monkey !” 

The girl got up and went to the fire. She 
seemed pretty well broken in to her mistress’s 
ill-usage, for her marble features gave not the 
slightest sign either of annoyance or of pain; 
but the redness on one of her cheeks sufficiently 
witnessed how hard the blow had been. 

As soon as the mistress saw the fire blaze up 
under the kettle, she proceeded to the stair-foot, 
and called, at the top of her voice, — 

“ Up, up, you lazybones, all ! Must I come to 
fetch you down, sleepy-heads ? Come ! look alive ! 
— Kate, Barbara, Jan ! As I’m alive, here’s 
four o’clock, and the whole set of you not done 
snoring !” 

A minute or two, and down came the sleepers. 
The two girls were the daughters of the house, — a 
little turned of twenty, it might be ; right peasant- 
girls, burly and sturdy, with nothing taking about 
them. 

Jan was a lad of seventeen, of features some- 
what boorish, but not at all irregular, and of an 
open, manly countenance, with a good deal of ex- 
pression. You might see at once in him a sound- 


RICKETICKETACK. 


9 


hearted, honest young fellow, without any unusual 
gifts of capacity. His blue eyes and long fair 
hair gave him an especial air of good-nature, 
which, in truth, belonged to him. 

He alone came up to the girl, who was still 
standing by the fire, and said to her, in a low 
voice, — 

“ Good-morning, Magdalen.” 

And, still lower, she answered him, — 

“ Thank you, Jan. Good-morning.” 

The coffee was set on the table ; and each one, 
before going off to work, got a slice of bread and 
butter. The mistress served out the portions, and 
poor Magdalen’s was hardly enough for a little 
child ; but of this she seemed to take no notice, 
and neither mien nor countenance showed the 
slightest sense of ill-treatment. But Jan’s looks 
were full of compassion for her ; and, as soon as 
he saw she had nearly finished her slice, he took 
the opportunity of his mother’s eyes being turned 
another way to share his own with her. 

Directly after breakfast, Jan and his sisters 
turned out to their day’s work. Magdalen re- 
mained behind, along with her mistress; it was 
her business to stand by the churn while the dog 
turned the wheel. 

As soon as the cream was in the churn and 
every thing ready for beginning, out went the 
mistress into the yard to fetch the dog which 
was to turn the wheel; but, behold! — the dog 
lay dead in his kennel. At this her wrath broke 


10 


RICKETICKETACK. 


all bounds ; in a fury of passion, she dashed back 
into the room, gave Magdalen another box on 
the ear, and drove her out of the house, exclaim- 
ing— 

“See there, you abominable hussy! You have 
given the poor beast nothing to eat yesterday, 
and there he is, starved to death. But I’ll teach 
you ! Here !” 

And again she struck the girl — who all the 
while said nothing — still more violently, rating 
her the while, and calling out, — 

“Yes, you won’t say a word, if you burst for 
it, you obstinate good-for-nothing ! It isn’t true, 
I suppose, eh, that you gave the dog nothing to 
eat? eh? Speak, will you? or I’ll wring your 
neck for you.” 

“Mistress,” said Magdalen, in an apathetic 
kind of tone, “I gave the dog his food yester- 
day, and there it stands by his kennel ; he hasn’t 
touched it, and the dish is quite full.” 

“The dish full, indeed!” screamed the other; 
“you lying monkey! You filled the dish this 
morning. Do you think I don’t know your tricks ? 
But I’ll make you repent it. Yes, you shall pay 
for it; you shall turn the wheel yourself. So 
come, in with you !” 

This new and cruel combination of insult and 
ill-treatment was evidently a hard blow to Mag- 
dalen. She trembled in every limb, and stood in 
the middle of the room, with downcast face and 
arms unstrung, like one condemned to death 


RICKETICKETACK. 


11 


and on the point of being led to the scaffold. 
Still, not a word did she utter. 

But her mistress was only the more irritated 
by her silent endurance. She snatched a stick 
from the fagot that lay by the fireplace, and 
raised her arm, as though to fall upon Magdalen 
with it. 

4 4 Come ! quick ! will you get into the wheel or 
not ?” 

The poor girl fell on her knees, lifted her 
hands as in supplication, cast a piteous look of 
entreaty from her dark eyes half-filled with tears, 
and at last spoke 

4 4 Ah ! do have mercy on me ! I will turn the 
wheel, but for God’s sake don’t beat me.” 

At this moment the door flew open, and Jan 
hastily entered the room. He ran up to Mag- 
dalen, raised her from her knees, and, turning 
to his mother, exclaimed, with ill-suppressed vexa- 
tion, — 

44 But, mother, how can you go on so? It’s 
ever and again the same story. I can’t turn my 
back to go to work but I hear you scolding and 
raving at Magdalen as if she was a dumb beast. 
If you want her dead, you’d better by half kill 
her at once. Can’t you see that she’s ill and 
wasting away?” 

At the last words tears gushed from Jan’s 
eyes, and he added, in a calmer but earnest 
tone, — 

44 Ah, mother! do let her alone! Else see, 


12 


RICKETICKETACK. 


(mind, I tell you,) I’ll be off with the first sol- 
diers that go by, and’ you don’t see me again 
my life long.” 

“I tell you she shall take the dog’s place in 
the churning- wheel. I’ll teach her to let him 
starve !” screamed his mother. 

“ What’s that you say?” asked Jan, quite out 
of himself, “ she — Magdalen — run in the churn- 
ing-wheel ? So ho, mother, that’s going too far ! 
How, tell me quick, do you really mean it ? Quick ! 
quick !” 

“ Look you, then ! how the fool stands, shaking 
like an aspen !” cried the mother, mockingly. 
“And what then if I do really mean it?” 

“Then, I tell you, mother,” replied Jan, seri- 
ously and firmly, “ as soon as Magdalen is in the 
wheel I’m out of the house : chains shouldn’t 
hold me ; and if you won’t believe me when I 
say it, I swear it, by all that’s fearful.” 

At this a very spasm of vexation and rage passed 
over the angry woman. She felt obliged to give 
way, for except Jan she had nothing but women 
on the farm, and he had already enough both 
of strength and experience in some degree to 
stop the gap made by his father’s premature death : 
without him she could not possibly have carried 
on the concern. 

“Get out of my sight, you lazy good-for-no- 
thing !” cried she. “Take the white cow to grass, 
hussy, and don’t let me see you again before 
four o’clock, if you don’t want your ribs well 


RICKETICKETACK. 


13 


basted ! And yon, Jan, go and tell Kate to come 
and help me to churn.” 

Magdalen walked off slowly toward the shed, 
to fetch the cow. As she went out at the door 
she turned toward Jan, who came close after her, 
and gave him a look, languid but full of feeling, 
as if she would have said, — 

“ Thanks to you ; you are protecting a corpse. 
I will pray for you when I am in heaven.” 


14 


RICKETICKETACK. 


CHAPTER H. 

She took her way with the cow toward the 
brook, which was edged about with a scanty 
growth of grass. Slowly she went, step by step, 
leading the creature after her by a cord. At. last 
she reached the line where the heath passed into 
a range of lower-lying boggy pastures and the 
alder and juniper-bushes formed a closer thicket ; 
there she left the footpath. A solitary beech 
stands there — sown probably by a bird, for as far 
as eye can see it descries no similar foliage. 
Magdalen sank down at the foot of the tree. 
Deeply she bowed her head ; motionless she gazed 
on space ; the cord fell from her hand, and her 
accustomed reverie came over her. 

How, in the free open air, under the beautiful 
deep blue heaven, the sore load of trouble which 
weighed upon her heart fell from it. Her lips com- 
plained not; no sigh heaved her bosom; but a 
quiet rill of clear pearls trickled into her lap. 
Long, very long, she sat there without changing 
her position ; but by degrees her tears fell more 
slowly, till at last she lifted her head, and, with 
a calmer air, fell into her old favorite tune : — 


RICKETICKETACK. 


15 


“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

The iron’s warm; 

Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

What could this strange jingle mean? It would 
have been useless to ask Magdalen, for she knew 
not herself how or why it was that of themselves, 
and, so to say, without consciousness or will of 
hers, the unmeaning words came tripping over 
her lips. A faint recollection she had of some 
one having once been used to sing them to her ; 
hut that was now long, long ago. They spoke 
but indistinctly; still, they had ever more and 
more fixed themselves in her train of associations, 
had become ever more and more the accompani- 
ment both of her joys and sorrows. 

After she had repeated them a few times, and 
each time less sadly, she seemed quite to have 
forgotten her melancholy and the causes of it. 
She stood up, her countenance radiant with con- 
tentment, briskly led the cow to a place where 
there was better pasture, and then ran toward 
a sandy hillock which rose a little above the 
general surface of the heath. 

It was evident that she often visited this spot, 
for where she sat down there was an indentation 
in the ground, as from frequent pressure. Steady- 
ing herself with her hands on her knees, she fixed 
her eyes on a bluish point far away upon the ex- 


16 


RICKETICKETACK. 


tremest verge of the horizon; — a town it was, 
probably, or at least a large village. Whatever it 
was, from this point a road led over the heath, 
which it traversed in a hundred playful turns, till 
by the farm-house it was lost amid the undula- 
tions of the moor. Thus sitting there, she might 
represent a fisherman’s orphaned daughter look- 
ing out from a high promontory of the downs 
upon the sea now subsiding into repose, anxiously 
expecting a boat which, alas! will never return 
more. Her case, however, was not precisely such. 
True, she was earnestly looking out for something, 
hut what it was that her heart was yearning after 
she knew not. With unwearied eye she gazed 
upon the road, doubtless in the unconscious hope 
that by it he that should release her from her 
bondage would one day approach ; but meanwhile 
she knew no one in the world but those imme- 
diately about her, and hundreds of travellers 
might pass by without her taking especial notice 
of any one of them. A poor silly thing her mis- 
tress’s daughters called her, but in truth she was 
any thing but that. 

Total abandonment and continued oppression 
had thrown Magdalen back upon herself, had 
compelled her to develop an inward life of her 
own. In the solitude into which, for the most 
part, she was banished, her intellect had acquired 
refinement and her imagination strength. All 
that went on with her she weighed and pondered 
upon right narrowly, felt right deeply; but the sum 


RICKETICKETACK. 


17 


of all her pon derings and impressions remained 
close locked up in her inmost heart. 

By this time the sun’s rays were falling upon 
the western declivity of the sandy hillock; it was 
long past mid-day, and Magdalen still sat there, 
her eye fixedly bent upon the blue point. She 
was hungry, and felt it sharply ; nevertheless, she 
sat on. 

At last might be seen a young peasant cau- 
tiously making his way through the alder-thicket 
which skirted the brook. Every now and then he 
turned back his head toward the farm-house, as if 
afraid of being discovered, till at last he made a 
stand by the beech at the foot of which Mag- 
dalen had sat weeping. Arrived there, he turned 
toward the sandy hillock, formed a trumpet with 
his hands, the more surely to direct his voice, 
and called, — 

“ Magdalen ! Magdalen !” 

At the call she rose from her seat, and slowly 
came up to the' peasant-lad, who, pointing with 
his finger to a suitable place, invited her to sit 
down beside him. This done, he produced from 
under his smock-frock a thick slice of bread and 
a bit of bacon, which he offered to Magdalen, 
having first cut the bacon into strips with his 
knife and spread it over the bread. Then he 
brought out from his pocket a little stone bottle 
of beer, set it down at the foot of a juniper-bush, 
and said, in a low voice, — 


2 * 


18 


RICKETICKETACK. 


“There, Magdalen! now you have victuals and 
drink. ” 

The poor girl gave him a look of hearty thanks, 
and began to eat the food he had brought her. 

“God will reward you, Jan,” at last she said, 
“for thus helping and comforting me in my 
misery. I thank you very much for all your 
goodness and kindness to me.” 

A violent pang, meanwhile, agitated the young 
man’s breast; he said nothing, but a stray tear 
trickled down his cheek. "When Magdalen had 
finished her meal, she laid her hand on his 
shoulder, and said, — 

“ Jan, my best friend, do not grieve yourself so 
much about me; your tears hurt me more than 
your mother’s blows.” 

“ Forgive her, Magdalen, for my sake ; for if 
you were to die without having forgiven her, 
and without saying a prayer for her, there can 
be no heaven for her.” 

“ I have nothing to forgive hef, Jan. There is 
no hatred in me ; I do not even think any more 
on what I have to bear ; every thing of the kind 
is already forgotten.” 

“Don’t deceive me, Magdalen. It is not pos- 
sible to forget such barbarous ill-treatment.” 

“I’ve told you the same thing more than once, 
and you don’t understand me ; and, indeed, I 
hardly understand myself. When I am beaten 
and knocked about, to-be-sure my body suffers, 
but my mind remains free, and goes on dreaming 


RICKETICKETACK. 


19 


of mysterious things that I know not of, which 
dart hither and thither before me and cheer and 
gladden me. These dreams comfort my soul ; in 
them I forget every thing ; they speak to me of 
another and a better life, and give me hope that 
I shall not always he an orphan. Will God in 
heaven be a father to me? or shall I see my 
mother before I die ? I know not.” 

“Your parents are dead, Magdalen. My 
mother has often told me so. But don’t let that 
make you unhappy. Just see what a pair of 
arms I have already ! Yet a few years, and I shall 
be a man, and a strong one too. Ah, Magdalen, 
do but live till then, and I will gladly work for 
you from morning to night, if I am to be your 
servant forever and a day.” 

“You my servant? Yo! that won’t do, Jan. 
Just look at me, now, and tell me what you see in 
my face.” 

The lad hid his eyes with his hands, and sighed 
out, in an under-tone, — 

“ Death ! Alas ! death !’ 

For some time the two sat side-by-side without 
speaking. At last Jan took Magdalen’s hand, 
and said, — 

“Magdalen, you never knew father or mother; 
from a little child you have been brought up in 
our house, and there — my sOul and body ! — you 
have had to bear more than enough for any ten 
mortal creatures. If that was to go on so you 
must die, sure enough ; that I must acknowledge 


20 


RICKETICKETACK. 


with tears in my eyes. But if from this time 
forward you were left alone and well treated, don’t 
you think you might live then?” 

“Live then?” repeated Magdalen. “Who 
knows when his time shall come ? I know what 
you are going to do ; but why for my sake pro- 
voke your mother and turn her hatred upon 
yourself?” 

“Why?” cried Jan, half vexed; “why? that I 
don’t know myself. But this I can tell you : that 
if you have one fixed thought or dream that 
follows you everywhere, I have one of my own, 
too, that never leaves me, — neither in the hardest 
work or the fastest sleep. And that thought is 
that I must make good to you the evil that my 
mother lays upon you. Ah, Magdalen, I can’t 
express myself so well or so strongly as you can, 
but for God’s sake don’t doubt what I say. From 
the day that you die, not a stroke of work more 
will I do, and they’ll soon lay me by you under 
the turf in the churchyard. And if you ask me 
why, — why, I can’t tell you that either. Look 
you : I have a heart that can feel under my smock- 
frock, after all; you are a poor thing without 
father or mother, and that’s enough for me. Ah ! 
only do live till I am of age, Magdalen ; my work 
will ” 

“Home with ther cow!” cried a threatening 
voice in the distance. 

Jan rose from his seat, cast once more a look 
of entreaty upon Magdalen, and disappeared 


RICKETICKETACK. 


21 


among the alder-bushes, whispering to her, as he 
went, — 

“ I shall come in directly. Go along ; she won’t 
heat you now.” 

Magdalen caught up the cow’s leading-string, 
turned slowly into the footpath, and took her 
way homeward. 


22 


RICKETICKETACK. 


CHAPTER HL 

In the village of Westmal, some two or three 
miles from Antwerp, on the road toward Tum- 
hout, stood a little smithy, in which four men — the 
master and his three journeymen — were busy at 
various work in the way of their trade ; and at the 
same time were conversing — as much, that is, as 
the noise of the hammers and files would let them 
— about Hapoleon and his mighty deeds of war. 
One of the journeymen, who had lost two fingers 
of his left hand, was just beginning a story of the 
Italian wars, when two horsemen pulled up before 
the door, and one of them called out, — 

“ Hola, my men ! my horse wants shoeing.” 

The journeymen looked curiously at the 
strangers, who by this time had dismounted. 
They were evidently both military men. One of 
them had a great scar right across his face and - 
wore a red riband in his button-hole ; the other, 
though dressed like a gentleman, seemed in some 
sort his subordinate; he held the horse by the 
bridle, and asked, — 

“Which shoe, colonel?” 

“ The near fore-foot, lieutenant,” was the reply. 

One of the journeymen took the horse and led 


RICKETICKETACK. 


23 


it into the shed, and meanwhile the colonel 
entered the smithy, looked about him, and took 
up, first one, then another, of the tools, as if 
lookings out for an old acquaintance. At last he 
seemed to have found what he wanted: in one 
hand he held a heavy pair of tongs, in the other 
a hammer, both of which he surveyed with so 
peculiar a smile that the journeymen stood round 
gaping and staring, in no little amaze. 

Meanwhile the iron was in the fire, the bellows 
panted away, and a garland of sparks spurted from 
the glowing coals. The journeymen stood by the 
anvil, their hammers in hand, till the master took the 
iron from the fire ; then began the work of forging. 

The colonel evidently took a lively interest in 
what was going on ; his features lighted up, as they 
might have done at the finest music. But when 
the shoe was taken from the anvil, as ready for 
putting on, he eyed it a moment not a little 
disdainfully, took the tongs which held it from the 
master-smith’s hand, and put it back into the fire. 

“ That will never do,” said he ; “ the shoe’s too 
clumsy by half, master. Now, my lads! look 
•alive ! blow away!” 

And while one of the journeymen, with an air 
of great respect, obeyed his directions, he threw 
off his coat and bared his sinewy arms. Soon the 
iron was at a white heat: he turned it twice or 
thrice in the fire with all the air of an experienced 
hand, laid it on the anvil, and then called to the 
journeymen, in a cheerful tone, — 
p 


24 


RICKETICKETACK. 


66 Now, my men ! Look out ! I’ll give the 
time, and we’ll turn out a shoe fit for the em- 
peror’s nags. So now, attention : — 

“ Ricketicketack, 

.Ricketicketoo ; 

The iron’s warm ; 

Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo. 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

Strike while it’s hot. 

And tarry not. 

Again, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo. 

There ; look at the shoe now.” 

The journeymen eyed the light neat piece of 
work agape, and, as it were, struck dumb. The 
master, meanwhile, seemed to he turning some 
thought in his head, which he every now and then 
shook, as though quite unable to come to a satis- 
factory conclusion. He drew near to the stranger, 
who by this time had resumed his coat ; but, how- 
ever closely he scanned him, he seemed unable to 
recognise him. 

The horse was soon shod, and now stood before 
the smithy ready for its master to mount, who 
took leave of the party with a friendly shake of 
the hand to each, laying also a couple of gold- 
pieces on the anvil : — 

“ One for the master, one for the men. Drink 
my health together, and good-by to you.” 


RICKETICKETACK. 


25 


With these words, he threw himself into the 
saddle and rode off with his companion. 

Hardly were the two strangers round the corner, 
when, of one accord, the journeymen began to 
cast looks of inquiry on the master. 

“ Colonel ! colonel !” at last growled one of 
them ; “ I say it, and I’ll stand to it, the fellow’s 
a smith, or he’s been one. I can’t help thinking 
you know him, master.” 

“Well,” replied the master, “I never in my life 
knew hut one man that could knock off 1 a shoe 
like that — so light and neat, and so handily; and 
I must he very much mistaken if the colonel isn’t 
just Karl van Milgem himself ; he, you know — 
but to-be-sure you don’t know — he that the folks 
used always to call Kicketicketack.” 

“What? The colonel the merry smith of 
Westmal?” asked one of the journeymen. “I’ve 
heard talk enough about Karl Kicketicketack; 
but he was a good-for-nothing fellow, — a drunken 
dog, fit to turn the whole village upside-down. 
Ho, no, that will never do; the colonel doesn’t 
look like that either.” 

The master seated himself upon the anvil, 
as one that has a story to tell, and began as fol- 
lows : — 

“My men, our day’s work is paid for twice 
over, so we can afiord to rest a little. The colo- 
nel is Karl van Milgem, sure enough. I’ll tell 
you his story as shortly as I can, and then you can 
say yourselves what you think about it. About 


26 


RICKETICKETACK. 


sixteen years ago there lived at this very smithy 
a young fellow who was married to the prettiest 
girl in all the country about. She came from 
Moll; and so fond were they of one another 
that it was a wonder and a pleasure to the whole 
village to see them. 'Well, that was Karl van 
Milgem, of whom we are talking. That was 
the fellow for work; early in the morning and 
late at night he was at it, till his face ran down 
with sweat, and all the while he kept time to 
that nice little tune that the colonel knows so 
well; so that among ourselves every one called 
him Karl Ricketicketack. He was always in 
spirits, and a regular witty fellow; there never 
came a word out of his mouth but what might 
set one laughing. And so in all Westmal there 
was no such favorite as the merry smith. He 
had been married a couple of years, and had 
no children : at last, however, he was expecting 
one. At this news he was merrier than ever; 
there was no end to his Ricketicketack, and at 
times one got quite afraid he was going out of 
his wits with joy, for, when the fit took him, cart- 
ropes wouldn’t hold him. At last the day came, 
and he had his wish ; but, poor fellow ! his wife 
never got over it. She lies buried in our church- 
yard there, where the iron cross stands. From 
that moment Karl was never the same man 
again. He left his hammer and anvil to them- 
selves, and didn’t light his forge-fire twice in a 
week ; and he began to drink as though he was 


RICKETICKETACK. 


27 


determined to make an end of himself. All his 
songs were forgotten, and he led such a life that 
he was a scandal to the whole village. When he 
came home drunk, he’d go on like a downright 
madman. But the servant-girl that lived with 
him and took care of his child had one way that 
never failed to quiet him: she used to put his 
little girl on his lap ; and, however far gone he 
might be, as soon as he saw the child it seemed 
as though an enchantment had come over him. 
He would laugh out as merrily as ever, set the 
little thing on his knee, and ride cock-horse with 
her to the old tune of Bicketicketack. That 
Karl was ever at bottom a bad man I don’t 
believe. Everybody knew well enough that it 
was his wife’s death that had made him desperate 
and drunken ; for every time that he crossed 
the churchyard and came to the iron cross, 
even if he was so that he couldn’t keep his feet, 
he’d break out into tears before all the world. 
And so every one had great compassion for him, 
and the neighbors took care that the child wanted 
for nothing, without saying any thing to him 
about it. So things went on for three years, till 
at last Karl was suddenly taken ill, and obliged 
to keep his bed, and that for a pretty long time 
too. All this while his friends, and the clergy- 
man too, talked so much to him about mending 
his ways that he seemed quite cured of drinking. 
But now he had got something else into his head. 
He had made up his mind to leave the village, 


28 


RICKETICKETACK. 


where the sight of his wife’s grave was forever 
reminding him of his loss ; so he sold off his 
smithy, with every thing in it, just as it stood, 
to my father, God rest his soul ! and early one 
morning away he went, with his child on his 
arm, over the heath, without telling a soul where 
to, and away he stayed; and from that day to 
this neither he nor the child has been seen or 
heard of.” 

“Ah! the colonel is Karl Ricketicketack!” 
cried one of the journeymen. “ That there’s no 
doubt of.” 

“He it is, and no one else,” said the master; 
“Didn’t you see how he took up the tools and 
looked at them? Well, every thing that my 
father or I had made or bought he laid down 
again, quite carelessly; but every thing that had 
belonged to Karl Ricketicketack’ s smithy he 
looked at as though he would have eaten it : you 
must have noticed it yourselves, if you had your 
eyes open. And then his way of speaking, just 
like our people here — his handiness at the forge — 
and, above all, his little tune. Yes, yes ! that’s 
a lad out of our village, I’ll lay my life of it. . . . 
Who’d have thought it? And now a colonel, — 
a real out-and-out colonel !” 

While the smith and his people thus talked 
over Karl Ricketicketack and his doings, the two 
strangers had turned into the Crown, where they 
put up their horses and got some dinner them- 
selves. Then the colonel left the inn, and pro- 


RICKETICKETAOK. 


29 


ceeded on foot along the high-road to the corpo- 
ration* clerk’s house. There he was shown into 
a parlor, where he had to wait a pretty long while, 
till the official came in from his fields, and en- 
tered the room with many deep and formal bows, 
and thus opened : — 

“Colonel van Milgem, your most obedient 
servant. I must beg that you will be graciously 
pleased to pardon my ” 

But the colonel did not give him much time 
for ceremonies and fine speeches, and with a 
hearty grasp of his hand broke in upon him : — 

“Well, my good friend, have you any news for 
me? is my child found ?” 

“ No, colonel, not yet,” replied the clerk, in a 
melancholy tone. 

“God help me, then!” cried the soldier, with 
a gesture of desperation, striking his hand against 
his forehead. “ Must I then give up all hope ?” 

“Be so good, colonel,” pursued the clerk, “as 
to hear my report, and you will find that, so far 
from giving up all hope, we are, on the contrary, 
in all probability, on the right scent. On the 
occasion of your last visit you left me money 
enough to carry on my researches regardless of 
cost ; and you may be assured that I have spared 
no pains to win your favor and the thousand 


* In Belgium and most other parts of the continent, not only the 
towns, but the rural parishes also, have a corporate organization 
for civil purposes. — T r. 


80 


RICKEJL’ICKETACK. 


francs you promised me in case of success. Hear 
now the sum of the information I have got to- 
gether. When Karl van Milgem” (and here the 
clerk bowed nearly to the ground) “left Westmal 
with his child, then four years old, he told no one 
where he was going to, and very likely did not 
know himself, for very trouble and sorrow. But 
now I have heard from yourself, colonel — and 
the result of my researches coincides with your 
information — that he intrusted his child to the 
care of an old schoolmaster at Weelde, on the 
other side of Turnhout, Peter Driessens by name, 
who lived with his wife in a lonely cottage at 
some distance from the village. To him he gave 
the child, and a little iron casket in which he had 
locked up the purchase-money of his smithy, and 
which, in case of need, the old people were to 
open, that the child and they might not want for 
any thing. Then he went otf to Holland, and, it is 
believed, took service with the French army ; at 
all events, he never afterward made any inquiry 
after his child; — at least so I was told at Weelde, 
and the people from whom I heard this had them- 
selves known Peter Driessens.” 

“The people don’t know what they say, my 
friend,” interrupted the colonel. “I wrote twice 
from Egypt to inquire after the child, hut got 
no answer. Afterward, on my return to France, 
after Kleber’s death, I hoped to be able to find 
her out myself. How my heart beat as I trotted 
over the heath and came near the spot where 


RICKETICKETACK. 


31 


the old people’s cottage had stood! But, alas! 
I found nothing hut a heap of ashes. At that 
my heart was wellnigh breaking ; what I felt it is 
impossible I can tell you. Luckily, however, ‘I 
heard from the people of the place that Driessen 
had saved himself and the little Monica, and gone 
off and about to see if he could beg a little sum 
together toward making up his loss.” 

“Just so, colonel. The schoolmaster’s wife 
was burnt to a coal ; hut he got away, with your 
Monica on his hack and a little iron casket under 
his arm. He got a very strong certificate from 
his parish, and set out with the child through 
the villages about, to get a little help and find 
some means of making his living. I know from 
a sure hand that he was seen begging about with 
the little Monica at Meerhout, Olmen, Balen, and 
Moll ; at the last place he fell ill, and there died. 
It is only since yesterday that I know when it 
was that he came to his end. The corporation 
clerk of Moll, my very good brother-in-office, 
has sent me the certificate of his death, and adds 
that nothing was found about the poor school- 
master that could lead to any trace of the child, 
which he well knows I am on the search after. 
Of the iron casket, also, he says nothing. Do you 
think, colonel, Driessen can have been bad enough 
to do the child a mischief or to leave it behind 
somewhere in the heath or wood?” 

“Oh no! certainly not!” cried the colonel; 
“he was my old schoolmaster, and was always 


32 


RICKETICKETACK. 


my friend — my best friend. When I came to 
him and told him I was going to Holland, to en- 
list in the army, he begged me of his own accord 
to leave the little thing with him, both to cheer 
him up in his old days, and for the child’s sake, 
that it might not come into mere strangers’ hands. 
I am assured, my dear sir, that he has left the 
child somewhere in good keeping, and the iron 
casket too !” 

“ That’s what I think myself, colonel ; and, as 
the result of my inquiries leads me to conjecture 
that Monica must be to be found somewhere 
between Rethy and Meerhout, I am minded to 
run over to Moll to-morrow and rummage up 
all the villages and farm-houses in the neighbor- 
hood.” 

“Well said, my friend; so do: your trouble 
shall not go unrewarded. I have still a few days 
to spare, and will see if I can’t do something to 
help in the matter. To-night we shall sleep at 
Lichtaert, and to-morrow, about mid-day, we’ll 
meet you at the clerk of Moll’s house, and then 
we can talk over together what’s to be done fur- 
ther. Don’t spare the money, my good friend; 
take a comfortable carriage, and don’t tire your- 
self to death for nothing. Good-by till to-mor- 
row, then, and God grant us success !” 

With these words, the colonel rose from his 
chair, shook the clerk by the hand, and returned 
to the Crown. An hour later, two horsemen were 
trotting away on the road toward Lichtaert. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


33 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was still early the next, morning when the 
colonel and lieutenant were riding along the 
serpentine windings of the road across the heath 
to Moll. 

Already the sun stood in all its glory in the 
blue sky, and drew up from the wide expanse 
of sand a hovering mist, which gave the heath 
much the appearance of an immense hearth with 
a colorless flame flickering over it. The peculiar 
aroma of the heather, and especially that charac- 
teristic scent of the heathery turf-fuel which under 
favorable circumstances of wind and weather in- 
dicates the neighborhood of these moors to a 
very considerable distance, and which no one that 
has once inhabited those countries could fail to 
recognise, however long absent, filled the air; 
the grasshoppers chirped their monotonous song, 
and thousands of little creatures besides played 
among the heather-flowers. Evidently the colonel 
was strongly affected. In just such an atmosphere 
had he passed the fairest years of his youth; 
every thing, down to the scanty grass itself, called 
up in him recollections, ah ! how dear ! His head 
deeply bowed upon his breast, he rode on before 


84 


RICKETICKETACK. 


his companion, letting the reins hang loosely on 
his horse’s neck. 

For more than an hour the young lieutenant 
respected his colonel’s silence. At last, however, 
with a touch of the spur he brought up his horse 
alongside and attempted a word of consolation. 

“Come, colonel,” said he, in a sympathizing 
tone, “ don’t he so down-hearted, after all. I can 
quite understand that you long to see your child 
again ; hut a man like you, that has a thousand 
times looked death and the enemy in the face 
without blinking, shouldn’t' let himself be bowed 
down by any ordinary sorrow.” 

“An ordinary sorrow do you call it?” asked 
the coloneh “And yet in truth it is an ordinary 
sorrow, Adolph, but not for that the less deep. 
Just see, my friend : in my whole life I have never 
loved but one woman. Mere peasant-girl as she 
was, the thought of her has never left me, not 
even in the hottest of the field. She is dead, my 
poor Barbara, but she left me this child, which 
she gave me at the cost of her life. And now 
I must fear that this sole relic of my happy 
days is wandering about as a beggar, that she 
is actually suffering hunger and thirst, while I 
am in possession of the means of giving her 
every comfort of life ; I have to think of Barbara 
as calling me to account for her child’s lot ” 

“Come, come, colonel!” interrupted the lieu- 
tenant, “you take the matter too imaginatively; 
hut that is not the way to ease your suffering. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


35 


Look at things a little coolly. A soldier must 
have self-command enough to bear up under a 
misfortune, even were it still greater than yours.’ ’ 

“ Do you think, then, my dear Adolph, it is as 
easy to cover the heart with steel as the body? 
If you do, you are much mistaken. I know you 
flatter yourself you’ve said good-by to feeling 
of every kind, and proud enough you seem of it 
too ; though, ten to one, you’re only deceiving 
yourself after all. It is six years since you left 
your village; is it not? Well, if at this moment 
your old mother’s cottage were to come in view 
in the farthest horizon : what then?” 

For a few moments the lieutenant was silent. 
At last, with downcast eyes and a look of some 
confusion, he replied — 

“Well, colonel, that would cost me some 
tears.” 

“Then it can’t be so very difficult for you to 
comprehend my giving myself up for a while to 
the joyful hope of finding my child again, and 
that I am ready to break out into tears of joy 
should God bring her once more into my arms. 
I have neither father nor mother, brother nor 
sister, — not even an uncle, aunt, or cousin. The 
only being in the whole wide world to which I 
am hound by any tie of blood is this child ; and, 
when my poor Barbara died, she laid it in my arms, 
and her last words were, Ah ! love it always !’” 

These last words, uttered in a low, smothered 
voice, evidently affected the lieutenant ; he pulled 


86 


KICKETICKETACK. 


in his horse, and fell behind without another 
word. Presently, however, the colonel noticed 
this, reined in his horse too, till they were in a 
line with one another again, and added, in a tone 
of deep emotion, — 

“ Adolph, if you were to lay your hand on my 
heart you would feel how thickly it is beating. 
Do not be surprised at seeing my eyes moist. Do 
you see yonder noble beech among the juniper- 
bushes by the brook ? That tree heard my first 
word of love. Under that foliage a shrinking 
maiden received my avowal. Here, every thing 
knows me ; grass, heath, brook, and tree, greet 
me in eloquent dumbness. Let us get off here; 
I should like to see if my name and Barbara’s, 
which I once cut in the bark, are still there.” 

Accordingly, they both dismounted and led 
their horses, which, on the edge of the brook, 
they tied to a tree, and then crossed the narrow 
stream with a jump. In front of the beech, the 
colonel’s folded hands sank down before him, his 
head drooped, and the look which he cast at 
the old love-token stole shyly from under his 
eyelashes. 

But suddenly he started, as from an electric 
shock, and instantly began listening with strained 
attention to some faint sound from afar. The 
lieutenant, not a little surprised at his colonel’s 
abrupt movement, looked about him for the cause 
of it: a sign prevented him from speaking or 
stirring. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


37 


From among the alder-bushes came the sound; 
and soon they could distinguish the notes, clear 
as a silver bell, of a girlish voice, and even the 
words which it sang : — 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

The iron’s warm ; 

Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

The colonel still stood motionless as at first. 
He seemed to be listening for another verse, 
which soon followed : — 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

Strike while it’s hot, 

And tarry not. 

Again, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

Hastily the colonel seized the lieutenant by the 
arm, and drew him rapidly along, exclaiming, as 
he wetit, — 

“ Come, come, my friend ! Every nerve in me 
quivers. I feel as if death was upon me, some- 
thing goes through me so! That was Barbara 
singing ! ’Twas her voice and her song !” 

The colonel once more caught his companion 
by the arm, and, without speaking a word, pointed 
to a young girl sitting on the grass at the foot of 
some juniper-bushes. She seemed to have no 
suspicion that she was watched, for her eyes were 
opened to the full, and steadily fixed on the beech- 
4 


38 


RICKETICKETACK. 


tree, while she held the fingers of her right hand 
to her half-opened lips, as though to still the 
lightest buzz from the heath that might interfere 
with a sound which, from far or near, was stealing 
to her. 

The colonel advanced a step, and then, for the 
first time, she became aware that strangers were 
at hand and noticing her with close attention. 
The fright of the first moment soon passed off, 
and a smile of indescribable feeling settled on her 
features. 

Unable to contain hi’s impatience, the colonel 
came quickly up to her, knelt down by her, took 
one of her hands in his, and asked, with quiver- 
ing voice, — 

“ Tell me, child, what is your name ?” 

“ Magdalen,” was the reply. 

A cry of anguish escaped from the unhappy 
soldier. He exclaimed, as in despair, “ Mag- 
dalen ! Heavens ! it’s not she !” 

And tears gushed from his eyes and he covered 
his face with both hands. The lieutenant would 
have raised him from the ground; but with a 
wave of the hand he gently refused the offered 
assistance. 

Magdalen looked first at one, then at the other, 
of the two men, and then observed that he 
that was kneeling by her wept bitterly. Seizing 
his hand, and in a tone of the deepest sympathy, 
she spoke : — 

“Ah, sir, what is it makes you so sad? I 


RICKETICKETACK. 


39 


haven’t said any thing to hurt you. Or is it 
the tune I was just singing that you can’t hear 
to hear? If that’s it, I’m sure I won’t sing it 
any more.” 

These few words affected the colonel deeply. 
Suddenly he dashed the tears from his eyes, 
edged still nearer to her than before, and asked, 
anxiously and hastily, — 

“But tell me, child, who was it taught you 
that tune ?” 

“ I don’t know,” was the answer, in a low voice. 
“I have known it a long, long time, — as long as 
I can remember any thing.” 

“Do you remember, when you were quite a 
little girl, often hearing a great noise, — a noise 
of smiths’ hammers?” 

Magdalen made no reply, but her eyes opened 
wider, and she passed her hand thoughtfully 
over her fair open forehead, as seeking to recall 
a memory. 

“ Listen, ’’pursued the colonel, still more hastily, 
still more anxiously; “listen, now, whether you 
haven’t often heard a noise like this.” And with 
the handle of his riding-whip he beat time in 
his hand to the usual measure of a smith’s hammer, 
and at the same time sang — 

“Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo; 

Strike while it’s hot, 

And tarry not. 

Again, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

Q 


40 


RICKETICKETACK. 


And ever as he went on, a deeper and a deeper 
thrill passed through her, till, as he closed, she 
cried out, in a transport of delight, — 

a Yes! yes! Ricketicketack !” 

And she beat the selfsame measure in her hand. 

“Now, my child, do you remember a man’s 
dancing and riding you upon his knee to that 
tune?” 

She put her forefinger to her lips and shut her 
eyes. After a moment of silence, she said, half 
aloud, and, as it were, doubtfully, — 

“The man — the man was — my father.” 

The colonel trembled in every limb ; he was on 
the point of opening his arms to clasp her to him ; 
still, he held back for one more question. 

“But now tell me again, child; was your name 
Magdalen then ? Can you recollect what the man 
that danced you on his knee used to call you?” 

She cast down her eyes, and for a while seemed 
lost in thought. At last, slowly, and syllable by 
syllable, she replied, — 

“He called me his dear — dear — dear Monica.” 

“My child! my child!” cried the colonel, in a 
voice that might have been heard all over the 
heath. Monica lay on his bosom. 

She looked up to him with her dark eyes ; she 
smiled sweetly upon him. At last, overpowered by 
her feelings, she would have fallen to the ground 
had not his arm supported her. 

And so they set out, she leaning on him, and 
followed the road, making a stand every now and 


RICJKETICKETACK. 


41 


then, till the farm-house came into distant view on 
the right, and they could proceed no farther with- 
out beginning to leave it behind. Certainly it was 
far enough from the colonel’s thoughts to set foot 
in the house where his daughter had suffered so 
much ; especially he shrank from coming in con- 
tact with the brutal mistress who had falsified 
the poor child’s name in order to appropriate the 
casket with its contents. Accordingly, when they 
arrived at this point he drew Monica on with 
a hurried step, and endeavored, by questions and 
manifestations of affection, to divert her attention 
from the farm. And from this we may conclude 
that she had already told him all, and how it 
would be with a heavy heart that she would 
part from the peasant-lad who had ever so faith- 
fully cared for her and protected her as a bro- 
ther. However much good Monica had told her 
father of Jan, he could not but feel a secret re- 
pugnance for the son of her tormentor, and 
would have been much better pleased to break 
away without more ado from so unpleasant a set 
of associations. 

But, spite of her father’s precautions, Monica 
suddenly tore herself from his arms, turned toward 
the farm, and stood motionless and speechless. 

The colonel left her a moment to her emotion, 
which he interpreted as a farewell to all her 
recollections of the past; but when he saw her 
eyes filled with tears he could not help throwing 
in a word. 

4 * 


42 


RICKETICKETACK. 


“Dear Monica, how can you grieve at leav- 
ing a house where you have suffered so much 
wrong?” 

“Ah, he’ll die!” she sighed out. 

“ Not he, child. I don’t doubt he’ll miss you 
at first; but he’ll soon be comforted and forget 
you.” 

A sudden flash lighted up Monica’s eyes. 

“Forget me!” cried she. “Forget his sister! 
Never, never! Ah, could I hut see him once 
again ! Ah ! there he is ! Jan ! Jan !” 

And, like a hunted deer, she darted over the 
heath toward the young peasant, whom she had 
seen in the distance passing among the alder- 
bushes. With open arms she threw herself upon 
him, but not gladly ; there was rather a tone of 
deep suffering in her voice as she spoke: — 

“ Jan, I’m going away — far, far from here.” 

The youth regarded her with an astonished air, 
and seemed not to understand her; but she 
pointed over the heath, and added, — 

“ See, there, behind me comes my father ; it 
was of him that the voice within me used to 
speak.” 

The lad started as in terror, and his knees 
failed under him as the colonel met his eye. He 
seemed in a moment to comprehend his misfor- 
tune in its whole extent. From the father he 
turned his troubled eye on Monica, laid a con- 
vulsive hold on the stem of an alder that grew 
by, and leaned his head and shoulder against 


RICKETICKETACK. 


43 


it. Monica understood what he was suffering; 
she threw her arms round his neck, gently lifted 
his head from the tree, and, for the first time in 
her life, pressed a glowing kiss upon his forehead, 
while the tears trickled down his cheeks. 

“Jan! Jan!” she cried, “my kind brother, 
don’t do so ! I’ll come and see you again.” 

This evidence of her affection somewhat ap- 
peased the youth’s grief. He looked upon her 
with a more quiet sorrow, she still with one arm 
round his neck, till the colonel’s arrival checked 
the threatened outpouring of their mutual feel- 
ings. He saw in all this nothing hut the attach- 
ment of two children who had grown up together, 
and smiled kindly upon them. Coming up, he 
took the lad by the hand. 

“Jan van Dael,” he said, “I thank you for all 
the kindness you have shown my child. If ever 
you are in want of a protector, my son, you shall 
find one in me. We are now going to Moll. 
Don’t be sorry for your sister Monica’s good 
fortune : that would not be right of you. Come 
as soon as you can and see us at Moll, at the 
Eagle; there we can spend some time together. 
Meanwhile, I must make you a little ” 

And with these words he slipped several gold- 
pieces into Jan’s hand, who, however, instead of 
thanking him, rather cast on him an evil eye, 
and did not even seem conscious of what had 
occurred. 

“Come along, Monica,” continued the colonel, 


44 


RICKETICKETACK. 


turning to his daughter, “we must make haste. 
For the present you and Jan may he com- 
forted; you will have time enough together in 
Moll.” 

With tears in her eyes, Monica pressed Jan’s 
hand, and slowly turned away, repeating, as she 
went, — 

“ Good-by till then, Jan ! Good-by till then.” 

The lad cast down his eyes, and for a while 
stood motionless. When he looked up again,' 
the colonel and his daughter had long since dis- 
appeared behind the alders. Now, for the first 
time, Jan felt something heavy in his hand : he 
regarded the pieces of gold with a contemptuous 
smile, and flung them from him far away over 
the heath. Then he sank down at the foot of the 
tree and hid his face in his hands. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


45 


CHAPTER V. 

Yet another hour, and the sun will shed his 
rays over the heath. He is already rising ; in the 
east the dawn is breaking; a low, mysterious 
buzz announces already nature’s awakening. 

In the little chamber of the solitary farm- 
house the old clock ticks steadily on in the dead 
stillness of the night, which else reigns there 
undisturbed : the hearth is cold. 

In the half-dark corner stands a spinning-wheel, 
the rock of finely-dressed flax still in it, the thread 
still unbroken, as though just left there by the 
spinner. 

Two or three steps from it we may discern the 
indefinite outline of a human figure : it is that of 
a young man, who sits and regards the spinning- 
wheel with a peculiar expression. His arms are 
folded on his breast ; his head is bowed ; his eye 
wanders from the wheel to the chair by it, and 
from the chair back to the wheel. His counte- 
nance bears the stamp of deep affliction ; his eyes 
glow with a stifled fire, as though despair were 
fast seated in his heart ; and yet from time to time 
a smile wanders over his lips. One that saw him 
so sitting there might well think that a form in- 


46 


RICKETICKETACK. 


visible to other eyes sat at the wheel, with whom 
he was mutely conversing through the medium of 
looks. Low tones — so low that they do not break 
the stillness of the night — float through the cham- 
ber ; the young man lays his Anger on his lips and 
seems to listen, though it is himself that is un- 
consciously singing: — 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo. 

The iron’s warm 
Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 


Now he rises from his seat, takes a stick from 
the corner, and slowly leaves the room. Dreamily 
wandering, he skirts the alders, and pulls to pieces 
sprigs of heather, with a strange smile. Arrived 
at the margin of the road, he casts a look toward 
the little hills which are seen not far ofl*; his eyes 
fill with tears ; he sits down and weeps bitterly. 

After a few moments he rises again and ap- 
proaches the lofty beech-tree, beside which low 
bushes of juniper wave to and fro in the morning 
breeze. There he stands, unconscious of his own 
existence, and listens as though a secret voice 
were speaking to him from the tree. A low song 
bubbles up, as it were, from his bosom, and 
drops, word by word, from his lips : — 


Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


47 


The iron’s warm ; 

Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

But now that dream has its end too. He leaves 
the beech, and makes his way, with long strides, 
over the heath. He climbs a sandy hillock ; on 
the top he firmly plants his long staff before him, 
and, half standing, half leaning on it, there he re- 
mains, fixed and motionless as a statue. His eye 
is fixed upon a bluish point in the distance, from 
which the serpentine road winds over the heath 
till it disappears near the hillock on which he is 
standing. 

What can it be that he is looking out for? 
What is he hoping for, that the road over the 
heath can bring to him? To whom does the 
morning breeze carry the sighs which so pain- 
fully burst from his bosom ? 

Listen ! you may hear it from himself, for the 
sigh becomes a word, — a name uttered in mingled 
love and pain : — 

“ Magdalen ! — Monica !” 

And now a peasant-girl mounts the hill from 
behind him, and, as soon as she is near enough, 
calls angrily to him, — 

“ Jan, you’re wanted in the house !” 

He starts up, and casts on her a bitter look ; but 
in the same instant his features resume their calm- 
ness, nay, even apathy, and he descends the hil- 
lock, merely saying,— 


48 


RICKETICKETACK. 


“Very well, sister; I’m coming.’' 

And he followed her homeward, hanging down 
his head, while she went on in the same tone : — 

“This is a fine way of going on, isn’t it? 
Plague on your nonsense! I suppose you think 
you can earn your bread with dreaming all day ! 
For the last three months you’ve been just as great 
a natural as that lazy Magdalen, that’s gone away 
with her father, as the folks say. I suppose you’ve 
learnt all this pretty stuff from her. Wet or dry, 
there you are from morning to night, on the sand- 
hill, gaping after the crows. I should be ashamed 
of myself. There’s our poor mother sick in bed, 
and you thinking of nothing but your own silly 
dreams ! I suppose you mean to bring the farm 
to the dogs, us to the workhouse, and yourself to 
Gheel !”* 

To all these reproaches Jan made no answer ; 
indeed, he did not seem even to hear them. He 
let his sister talk on without showing the least 
sign of annoyance, and followed her quietly to the 
house. 


* A village in the neighborhood, where there is a public lunatic 
asylum. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


49 


CHAPTER VI. 

One afternoon, J an stood again by the beech- 
tree. He looked weak and wasted ; the fresh red 
of his cheeks had given way to an ashy trans- 
parent paleness ; his eyes had lost all expression, 
and his head hung down listlessly on his left 
shoulder. 

Already had he stood thus more than half an 
hour without moving, when behind him, among 
the alders, a step rustled in the fallen leaves. He 
turned round : there stood the old parish priest of 
Desschel. With an evident effort he threw a 
more cheerful expression into his countenance, and 
bowed respectfully to the clergyman ; he even at- 
tempted to smile, but in a way that only witnessed 
the more of his internal suffering. 

The priest sat down on the grass, and with a 
gesture invited Jan to take a seat beside him ; 
then he took the young man by the hand, looked 
him compassionately in the face, and in a tone of 
true fatherly feeling thus began : — 

“ Jan ! Jan ! is this the way you keep your 
solemn promise? Still always under the beech- 
tree! You will have it, then, that your mother 
5 


50 


RICKETICKETACK. 


must do as she has threatened, and cut the tree 
down?” 

At these words a convulsive start passed 
through Jan’s limbs; he darted an indignant look 
upon the priest, and cried out, — 

“ What ! cut the tree down ! — the beech-tree ! 
I’d smash the workmen’s skulls in.” 

This outbreak astonished the good pastor not 
a little ; he was in hopes that his reiterated admo- 
nitions had already in great part subdued Jan’s 
grief, and that the poor fellow had by this time 
half forgotten the cause of it. In the same pater- 
nal tone he added, — 

“ Jan, my son, those are sinful words of yours. 
What your mother said about the tree is not 
exactly to be taken for gospel ; but that you, with 
your right feeling and good understanding, should 
let yourself be led away by an empty nothing, a 
foolish dream, to think of murder and threaten it, 
is what I can’t understand, and it grieves me more 
than I can tell you. Tell me : do I deserve that 
you should answer me so?” 

“Forgive me,” said Jan, repentantly; “I know 
that you desire nothing of me but what is for my 
good ; but there is something in my heart which 
I cannot account for even to myself, and which is 
stronger than your words and my will.” 

“Hear, Jan: it is written, ‘He that loveth 
danger shall perish therein;’ and so it is with you, 
my lad. If, instead of giving yourself up to 
dreams, and so wasting health and strength, you 


RICKETICKETACK. 


51 


were to work as you used to do, and as it’s your 
duty to do, you’d soon forget all about this grief 
of yours ; you’d be well in body and cheerful in 
mind, and be able to be a help and support to 
your sick mother. But now you waste your time 
in idling under the tree here, or else upon the 
sand-hill ; and so not only you make a great sin- 
ner of yourself, by neglecting your duty toward 
God and your mother, but a great fool too, for 
tormenting yourself with hankering after impos- 
sible things, and throwing away your whole life 
upon an idle dream.” 

“ Ah, well ! I did work on for a long time 
after she left, and only came here out of work 
hours. I did hope then that I should forget her, 
but the thought of her followed me everywhere. 
While I was at the plough I heard her name ; the 
flails beat time to Ricketicketack ; and every name 
that was called sounded like Monica. It did me 
no good working ; and I didn’t know what I was 
about ; ’twas all of no use. In my sleep it was 
the same thing over again. I used to see her and 
talk with her, and so I had comfort, but I had no 
rest. How, with all the good-will in the world, I 
can’t work; I’m weak and ill.” 

The good priest shook his head, and for a while 
remained silent; at last he once more took the 
lad’s hand, and resumed : — 

“ How, Jan, you must tell me whether you mean 
this to go on so, or not. It is quite certain, and 
that you know well enough, that Monica will not 


52 


RICKETICKETACK. 


come back; and, if she did, that would only make 
the matter worse ; she’s a rich young lady now, 
and you are a little farmer’s son, and just fit for a 
little farmer yourself. All this, therefore, is mere 
idleness and folly.” 

“But how can I forget her, then, father?” 

“Do you really and honestly wish it?” 

“ I do ; from my inmost soul I wish it, for now 
my very dreams are hitter to me, and my heart is 
full of despair.” 

“Well, then, show once for all that you have a 
will, and really desire to come to your senses. 
Follow your mother’s wish and my advice. Go 
into the seminary at Mechlin.” 

“ I should die there, father.” 

“Why so?” 

“Why so? A few months ago I was obliged to 
spend a week at Brussels, and all that time I did 
nothing hut weep ! Ah ! how I did suffer !” 

“I don’t understand you, Jan.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you, then. As soon as I was 
able to get away, I set off and walked on, day and 
night, without stopping. The first puff* of wind 
that came to me with the smell of the heather- 
peat seemed to me like a new breath ; at the first 
fir-tree I threw myself on my knees and thanked 
God that he had brought me hack to my own old 
trees again ; the first hit of heather I saw, I swal- 
lowed it out of pure delight ; and the moment I 
got here I ran off to the beech-tree, with my eyes 
fall of tears, and began talking to the juniper- 


RICKETICKETACK. 


53 


bushes as though they had understood me. And 
now you want me to he six whole years away ! I 
could never hear it.” 

“ My son, I know well enough the reason why 
you above all others love the heath-land ; but this 
reason why is just what we want you cured of. 
Headwork will do more than bodily labor to 
drive the image that haunts you from your mind, 
and consciousness of being destined to be set 
apart for the service of God -will help you to 
subdue all these foolish dreams. Other reflections 
I might propose to you, well suited to bring you 
to a better frame of mind. Do you think it’s any 
thing else than self-murder, your fretting yourself 
to death in this way ? And do you think that if 
you really persist in such sinful folly, to the de- 
struction of your body here, it can ever be well 
with your soul hereafter ? In your idle dreamy 
existence you think on only one subject, and that 
an earthly one ; no thought of any thing higher, 
no reflection on heavenly things, finds room in 
your heart; you never pray, unless you call it 
praying repeating a form of words with your lips 
while in very truth you are casting scorn on God 
by worshipping a mortal image even in his holy 
place.” 

These words, spoken in a tone of the most 
serious earnestness, made a deep impression on 
poor Jan’s feelings. They were terrible truths 
that his good pastor had spoken to him, and his 
inmost soul was shaken. For a while he stood 
5 * 


54 


RICKETICKETACK. 


speechless, staring into vacancy. At last he raised 
his head, and spoke as one taking a sudden re- 
solve : — 

“ Well, then, father, I will go to Mechlin.” 

“ To-morrow?” asked the rector, well pleased 
at his success. 

“What! to-morrow?” replied Jan, half terrified; 
“to-morrow, and forever?” 

“My good Jan, what nonsense you talk! You 
can pay your mother a visit more than once in 
the year, and the vacations will give you time 
enough for wandering about on your darling 
heath. And then, if you come to be ordained, 
you may get appointed to one of the villages 
about here, and pass your life peacefully in the 
midst of it. So, you’ll go to-morrow, won’t you ?” 

“Well, then, to-morrow; so be it!” cried the 
poor fellow, so sharply that the thicket rang w T ith , 
it. “To-morrow! to-morrow!” 

Half an hour later the rector was gently leading 
him home by the hand. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


55 


CHAPTER VII. 

Monica had accompanied her father to France. 
She had left her native district with her heart full 
of sorrowful regret for him who on his side was 
mourning and suffering for her ; hut her father’s 
tenderness, and his efforts to divert her, succeeded 
after a time in banishing sadness both from her 
heart and countenance. The tumult of the great 
world and its ceaseless round of pleasures threw 
the recollections of her former life more and more 
into the background; and, while she did not en- 
tirely forget the solitary farm-house and him who 
had been her protector and brother there, her 
thoughts of them were both less frequent and less 
intense. 

At Paris she had been put into the hands of 
the best teachers ; and, being gifted with rapid 
apprehension and encouraged by her father’s in- 
terest in her progress, in the space of four years she 
had acquired all the accomplishments necessary for 
her figuring on an equal footing in good society. 

Thus Monica’s pale cheeks had soon gained 
color; her health improved, the symptoms of 
decline disappeared, and she grew visibly in 
strength and vigor. One soon becomes habituated 
R 


56 


RICKETICKETACK. 


to any thing, and soonest of all to good fortune. 
So it was with Monica. For a whole year she took 
pleasure in every thing ; halls and entertainments 
of all kinds followed one another incessantly; 
ever more and more she entered into the spirit of 
the world and desired its applause. 

But this state of mind did not last long with 
her. From time to time old remembrances flitted 
over her spirits, and in the course of the second 
year she seemed again possessed by a spirit of 
silent re very. Amid all the festive tumult, the 
crash of music and the blaze of lights, she would 
seem absent and insensible to what was passing, 
as though some secret and absorbing thought 
pursued her everywhere. At first this revulsion 
of feeling was but weak: she would often ac- 
knowledge to her father that she had been think- 
ing of the open heath, with its one stately beech 
and waving junipers; she would tell him how 
plainly she saw them before her, and at the same 
time would laugh and jest over her dream-plague, 
as she called it. * 

Did the images of her dream ever show her 
among the thicket the poor Jan who was mourn- 
ing for her so unceasingly? Who knows? At 
all events, she did not acknowledge it even to 
herself, much less to another. 

By degrees, meanwhile, a distaste to these diver- 
sions came over her; she now only frequented 
them when she could no longer evade her father’s 
solicitations ; an inclination for solitude grew upon 


RICKETICKETACK. 


57 


her. At times her lips would move involuntarily, 
and without any thought of hers the long-for- 
gotten tune would hover on them. Again the color 
left her cheeks; again she grow thin and 'sickly, 
— so much so that the poor father began to fear he 
should lose her again and forever. A skilful phy- 
sician whom he consulted recommended marriage 
as the best and only means of cure, and assured 
him she would infallibly soon be herself again 
could she only be prevailed upon to enter into this 
view. Forthwith the colonel bethought him of 
his trusty comrade the lieutenant, and took not 
a little trouble to turn Monica’s thoughts that 
way. He found her by no means insensible to 
his young friend’s attentions and good qualities, 
but love for him there was none in her ; her heart 
remained cold as ice toward him. This grieved 
the father sadly; he saw his sole resource failing 
him, — that upon which all his hopes of saving his 
child were staked. Daily now he would exhaust 
his ingenuity to find out from her what she de- 
sired, what he could do to please her, what it 
could be that set her mind ill at ease ; she only 
answered she was not ill, and generally contrived 
to put an end to his questioning by caresses or 
similar artifices. All that he could get out of 
her was that she had an earnest longing after 
the heaths of Brabant; in fact, that she was in 
a manner homesick. 

More than once he had promised her a long 
visit to the moor of Kempen, that her health 


58 


RICKETICKETACK. 


might be restored by the genial influence of her 
native air ; hut the rapid thickening of the events 
of the war ever and again prevented the accom- 
plishment of this project. 

At last, toward the end of 1813, by ceaseless 
solicitation, the colonel had obtained from the 
Minister of the War Department the promise of 
a three months’ leave of absence for the next 
spring. The thought of revisiting the scenes of 
her youth seemed to give new life to Monica. 
But soon there came news of disaster from the 
North ; nearly the whole of the French army had 
perished by the enemy and the elements, and no 
one could foresee what might be the consequences 
of this defeat. One universal shudder had come 
upon the soldiers left behind in France at the 
terrible news. The colonel could not conceal all 
this from Monica, and she saw only too well that 
her visit to her dear Kempen was now indefinitely 
postponed. 

Meanwhile, the Emperor suddenly returned 
without his army, and a decree of the Senate ap- 
peared, by which 350,000 young men were called 
into arms. At the same time, the colonel received 
orders to join the army in Germany with his regi- 
ment. He had only time to place his daughter 
under proper care at Paris, and, ill as she was, 
tore himself from her, to follow Napoleon over 
the Rhine. 

Six months afterward, he received a shot in the 
kuce at Dresden, which, though he recovered, 


RICKETICKETACK. 


59 


left him seriously lame for life. His wish to re- 
turn to Paris was now readily complied with. 
There he found Monica still thinner than he had 
left her, with her old transparent paleness and 
watery eyes, listless, and given up to her dreams. 

In her heart only two chords remained which 
were not wholly unstrung, — her love to him and 
to her native scenes. 

The colonel immediately made all preparations 
for returning with Monica to Brabant. A suitable 
house had already been taken and furnished for 
them at Antwerp. His view for the future was to 
purchase or rent a country-place in the neighbor- 
hood of Moll ; but that he did not deem expedient 
at present, while the war was still raging, 

A few days, and they set out for their destina- 
tion. Nothing occurred to disturb them on their 
glad return till they had actually reached Ant- 
werp and were approaching the door of their new 
abode. Then, as Monica was accidentally look- 
ing from the carriage-window, she suddenly gave 
a loud cry, as of alarm, which made the colonel 
start from his seat in affright. 

To his questions as to the cause, she only re- 
plied, — 

“It’s nothing, father; I saw a poor fellow in 
the street so wretchedly dressed, and yet with 
such expression in his eyes ! But it’s over now ; 
I’m quite quiet again.” 


60 


RICKETICKETACK. 


CHAPTER VIH. 

Six weeks had elapsed since the colonel’s arri- 
val at Antwerp. 

In the garret of a small house, in a little hack 
street, sat, early one evening, an old woman, 
working lace by candlelight. Every thing about 
her had a thoroughly poverty-stricken air; for 
she lived under the hare roof, and for furniture 
had neither more nor less than a small table, two 
miserable chairs, and a bed, the covering of which 
was made up of all kinds of rags and fragments 
quilted together. Ever and anon, while she me- 
chanically plied the bobbins, she bowed her ear 
toward a sort of partition, behind which the bed 
stood, and seemed to listen to a scarcely audible 
sound. 

At one of these moments, while her hands 
rested for an instant on the cushion, the door of 
the little room opened, and another woman en- 
tered. The first laid her finger on her lips, and 
with a whispered “Hush!” imposed silence on 
the new-comer, whom she then took by the 
hand and led to the table with as little noise 
as possible. Then she gave her visitor one of 
the chairs, cautiously sat down in “the other 
herself, and at last whispered, — 


RICKETICKETACK. 


61 


“ Make as little noise as you can, Kate, — there’s 
a good soul; he’s in such a nice sleep.” 

Kate produced a piece of knitting from her 
pocket, and answered, just as noiselessly, — 

“Haha, that’s the young fellow you took in. 
You did a good deed on him, Granny* Teerlinck, 
if it’s true what the people say.” 

“Well, Kate, this I can tell you : — that hut for 
me the poor fellow would he dead and buried.” 

Meanwhile, Kate had been closely scanning 
every corner of the little garret; at last she re- 
commenced : — 

“But, granny, if I remember, you’ve had the 
lad here in your room for five or six weeks : 
where do you sleep yourself, then?” 

“Ay, indeed, Kate, where do I sleep! why, 
here in the corner, with my head on the table. 
There’s not much left to spoil in me; I’ve had 
my day, wench.” 

“But — Lord bless us! — how can you hold out 
in that way ? Six weeks without going to bed ! 
It’s enough to kill you, granny !” 

“Well, Kate, we can but give our neighbor 
what we have. The rich folk give their money, 
and I — well, I give what I have too, my bed and 
my night’s rest.” 

“Well, granny, I must tell you, that’s more 
than I could do ; hut well done it is, and you’re 


* A familiar form of address to old women among the Flemish 
people. 


6 


62 


RICKETICKETACK. 


earning yourself a seat in heaven by it, sure 
enough, granny. But I don’t know now just 
how it all happened ; one says this and another 
that, and in the end one can make neither head 
nor tail of it, and is just as wise as at first. How 
was it all, now? just tell me, granny.” . 

“Well, that I’ll tell you, Kate; only come a 
little closer, — we might wake him, poor fellow. 
It’s five or six weeks ago now, it was on a Satur- 
day, and eleven o’clock at night, sure enough ; — 
well, I’d cooked a good supper for my cat, and, 
as I hadn’t seen her at home all the afternoon, 
I took my peterkin* and went out behind there, 
toward the dead wall, where the carts and car- 
riages stand, to see if I could find the witch 
there. Well, while I was spying about there, 
and calling out 4 Puss ! puss !’ what should I hear 
hut something groan — just like a Christian, as it 
plight be. It made me give such a jump ! Well, 
I looked on the ground, where I thought it came 
from, and there — good heavens ! I can’t tell you 
how frighted I was — there lies a man on his back, 
with his face covered with blood.” 

44 Covered with blood, do you say ?” 

44 Yes, Kate, covered with blood. Well, just 
think now\ I ran to the neighbors; they soon 
brought a light, and then we found that it was 
a young fellow that had most likely fallen asleep 
on a market-cart, and so tumbled off. He must 


* A little metal lamp. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


63 


have been lying there a good while, for the blood 
was all clotted hard.” 

“And he was dead? eh, granny?” 

“Dead, you goose, and he asleep there in my 
bed?” 

“Ah, well, granny, one hasn’t always one’s 
wits about one ; well, one can’t help that. Now 
— and what did they do then ?” 

“Ah, yes, what did they do ? Why, just as they 
always do, Kate. A deal of talk and nothing 
done ; and all the while there lay the poor fellow 
in his blood on the cold stones : my heart was 
ready to break over him. Well, then, I said 
to myself, 4 In God’s name, we’re all brothers and 
sisters after all;’ and so I didn’t wait till the 
doctor came to send him ofl* to the hospital, but 
I bade the people take him up and put him 
here in my bed.” 

“But, granny, how have you managed to keep 
him and do for him all this while ? Ah ! you 
must have an old stocking hid somewhere, I see.” 

“No, Kate, I’ve worked hard, and gone a little 
on trust; but that doesn’t signify; what’s given 
with good heart the Lord gives us back.” 

“Well, that is a story! Do you know at all 
who his people are, granny, and where he comes 
from?” 

“I’ve never asked him about that; but when 
the fever goes to his head then he talks out in 
his dreams, and so I know that his father and 
mother are both dead.” 


64 


RICKETICKETACK. 


“And he hasn’t said any thing else that you 
could notice ?” 

“lo! he comes out with a deal that I can’t 
make head nor tail of, about a beech-tree, and a 
heath, and fir-woods. Sometimes he’ll talk Latin ; 
and sometimes he calls , 4 Monica ! Monica !’ That’s 
his mother’s or sister’s name, I take it. But there’s 

a tune he has well, I’d give a groat you could 

hear that; it’s something about Ricketicketack, 
and enough to set you dancing. But the best 
of all is, he’s always talking as though they 
had wanted to make him a priest; so one day 
I managed to get a look at his head, to see if 
they’d shaved a bit there, but never a razor had 
come on his curly poll, I’ll be bound.” 

“ Ah ! it’s some poor fellow that had got too 
much to drink, and now he’s lost his wits.” 

“ What ! lost his wits, Kate ? Lost his wits ? I 
wish you could hear him ! you’d go on your knees 
to him. He speaks like a book ; our curate’s best 
sermons are nothing to him. There hang his 
clothes, Kate; just see what fine cloth it is. 
Every time he opens his mouth to thank me the 
tears come into my eyes, and it’s as though an 
angel was speaking to me. I tell you, Kate, I’m 
fonder of him than if he was my own child ; and 
if he’d stay with me I’d be glad to work for him 
till my death’s day. Ah, Kate, he always calls 
me mother; you should only just hear him.” 

“Well, but how’s it going with him now? Does 
he get better?” 


RICKETICKETACK. 


65 


“Well, yes. For a whole month he was quite 
out of himself, quite light-headed with fever ; but 
for the last week he’s been better. He gets on 
but slowly, and his memory only comes hack by 
degrees, but else he’s quite in his right mind. If 
he liked talking a little better, I should know 
more ; hut he never says a word, except that he 
thanks me a hundred thousand times over ; and I 
never ask him a word. His name is Jan — that he 
told me yesterday ; and the rest will all come, I 
dare say, Kate, when he’s once a little better; 
now he’s as thin as a lath and as white as a night- 
cap. The first time he got up he was so weak 
that I was obliged to take him in my arms, or he’d 
have fallen of a heap, like a wet cloth.” 

“ Ah ! the poor fellow !” 

“Well, as I said, he’s much better now; he can 
walk pretty well, and yesterday he said, of his 
own accord, he’d go out this evening to get a 
little fresh air.” 

Hardly were the words out of Granny Teer- 
linck’s mouth when a voice was heard from be- 
hind the partition, calling out, in a soft, low tone, — 

“ Mother ! good mother !” 

Both the words and the tone in which they were 
spoken seemed to have a magic effect on the old 
woman’s feelings ; her eyes overflowed with deep 
emotion as she approached the bed, the lamp in 
one hand and a cup of milk-and-water in the 
other. 

Her patient looked up at her with such an ex- 

6 * 


66 


RICKETICKETACK. 


pression of love and gratitude, that she turned 
away to wipe a tear from her eye. Meanwhile, 
the young man seized one of her hands, and im- 
pressed a long kiss on it. 

. “ Good mother !” he repeated. 

Kate made as long a neck as she could to get a 
look at the sick man ; she started in every limb 
when he turned his hollow eye upon her, and 
pushed her chair hastily back, as though shrink- 
ing from some terrible apparition. 

The young man threw his thin arm round his old 
nurse’s neck, and drew her toward him. Probably 
he whispered something in her ear, for she im- 
mediately brought him his clothes, laid them on 
the bed, and then drew the tattered curtain. This 
done, she returned to the table, and whispered in 
a low but delighted tone to the terrified Kate, — 

“He’s getting up !” 

These words did not seem to afford much satis- 
faction to the visitor, for she turned pale and 
looked anxiously toward the door. Evidently she 
was nervously desirous to be clear out of the room, 
while her female curiosity urged her to keep her 
seat. The latter prevailed. 

In a few moments the curtain was drawn back. 
The old woman hastened up to her patient, helped 
him out of bed, and supported him to the table, 
on which he leaned. 

Can this walking skeleton be the young peasant 
whom we have seen ? Yes, he it is, poor fellow ! 
His bones seem as though they would force their 


RICKETICKETACK. 


67 


way through the colorless skin ; his eyes are sunk 
deep in their sockets ; his figure is bent double ; 
his head hangs on one side. His clothes, dirty 
and coarsely patched, are only fit for a beggar. 

How he stands before the good old granny, and 
holds one of her hands in his. He looks at her 
with the tender expression that belongs to a 
loving child. At last he speaks : — 

“ Good mother, I should he glad to go out ; but 
I’m afraid you won’t like it.” 

“ Why, Jan, my lad,” answered the old woman, 
“ you’re so sadly weak, my poor lamb ! you might 
so easily fall and get a mischief ; you can’t think 
what a fright I should be in the mean while.” 

The old woman’s anxiety was so plainly written 
on every feature of her countenance, that Jan’s 
inmost soul was moved. 

“ Ah, mother,” he sighed out, “why are you so 
fond of me? Ah, yes; indeed you are my 
guardian angel. What no one could do, that 
your love has done. What wonderful goodness 
of soul there must be in you ! On the very brink 
of the grave you’ve enough of the spirit of tender- 
ness left in you to sweeten life for an unhappy 
creature like me, and to bring him back out of 
the very pit of despair. How I have prayed to 
God to bless you ! It was my first prayer for 
these seven years that has had no other thought 
mixed with it.” 

The young man’s speech had gradually acquired 
a tone of enthusiasm which quite carried Kate 


68 


RICKETICKETACK. 


away. Her nervous terror disappeared. With 
gaping mouth and open eyes she listened to the 
words, each one of which touched and trans- 
ported her. The old dame threw an inquiring 
look on her, as if to ask, — 

“ How, what do you think of my lad ? Is he 
out of his wits ?” 

But Kate listened on without a word, even long 
after J an had ceased to speak. 

“Poor fellow!” sighed his old nurse. “But 
keep a good heart! I’m old and worn out, and 
know nothing; but if you’ll stay with me I’ll 
always love you, and my old fingers shall work 
for you.” 

Jan took her hand and put it to his lips, but 
otherwise made no answer. 

“Jan,” she went on, “if you’d like to go out, 
say so ; aijd don’t stay in on my account. I’ll go 
with you.” 

“Good mother,” said he, in a tone of entreaty, 
“ I should like to go out : but I must go alone ; 
my head burns, and I feel as if being quite alone 
would do me good. To-morrow, good mother, 
I’ll tell you who I am, and all about me. How 
let me go, and do you stay quietly at home ; I 
shall be back in an hour.” 

The old woman gave Jan her crutch-headed 
stick, led him down the stairs, spoke a few more 
words of kindness to him, and shut the door. 

There he goes now, with unsteady foot, through 
the darkness ; he keeps close to the houses, leans 


RICKETICKETACK. 


69 


on the crutehed stick, and pants with weariness. 
Certainly his walk has some definite object, for he 
never hesitates a moment in choosing his way. 
2ffow and then he stops and rests a while, then goes 
on again, and so at last he arrives at the Place de 
Meir. There he keeps still closer along the walls 
of the houses,, and proceeds still more slowly ; you 
might almost take him for a thief or a spy. And 
now he stops under the closed windows of a hand- 
some house, leans his elbows on the stone window- 
sill of the ground-floor, and endeavors to peep 
through the interstices of the Venetian shutters. 
There is light in the house ; a beam of it falls on 
his face, while for very weariness he sinks against 
the wall, and helplessly leans his head on the stone. 


70 


RICKETICKETACIv. 


CHAPTER IX. 


In the handsome saloon at the window of which 
Jan was watching were two persons. Colonel 
van Milgem sat by the marble hearth, in a velvet- 
covered arm-chair, and seemed to be deeply busied 
with some thought, so intently were his eyes fixed 
upon the carpet. By a table, on which lay various 
silver implements of female work, sat a young 
lady, occupying herself with stringing beads. 
Her face was pale, and bore on it all the signs of 
a long and wearing illness ; the marble fairness of 
her complexion was still further enhanced by the 
raven-black locks, which on the slightest move- 
ment seemed affectionately to caress her cheeks. 
After a long silence, she began to hum the burden 
of her favorite tune. This seemed not exactly 
to please the colonel. At last he shook his head 
with an air of annoyance, and said, — 

“ Don’t be always at that tune, Monica; it only 
feeds your melancholy, and you know it makes 
me quite sad.” 

“ What ! was I singing it again ?” said Monica, 
in surprise. “I didn’t know it, father. Forgive me 
for being so absent.” 


RICKETICKETACK. 


71 


“Well, will the purse soon be ready?” now in- 
quired the colonel. “ Poor Adolph ! how pleased 
he’ll be at the present — he that loves you so !” 

“ Where is he now?” 

“ That’s hard to say. Who knows? Perhaps 
in the hospital somewhere or another ; if, indeed, 
a bullet hasn’t already made an end of him.” 

“ Oh, father, father ! you make me tremble.” 

“What! do you tremble for him? You do care 
for him, then ?” 

“ To be sure I do, — as my brother.” 

“Ah, Monica, you must care for him more than 
that. And he deserves it in every way. He’s a 
handsome young fellow, with every thing in him 
to please a woman ; and, besides that, it was he 
that saved your father’s life at Dresden. Even if 
love can’t find the way to your heart, I should 
think that mere gratitude might make you willing 
to follow my advice, and my entreaty too, and to 
reward him for his love and generous self-devo- 
tion.” 

“Look at me, father. What have I to give 
Adolph ? My real love is all set on you ; I have 
no heart for him, then. Shall I marry him to 
make him unhappy with coldness and indiffer- 
ence ? Surely a husband asks more of his wife 
than mere friendship. But, besides, I feel an 
invincible disinclination to a tie that would de- 
prive me of my liberty.” 

“Of what liberty, Monica? The liberty to 
dream and brood over you know not what? 
s 


72 


RICKETICKETACK. 


Would to heaven you might lose this liberty, 
which only wears and wastes you. Do but see, 
my child, what a happy life it will he for you, when 
we take possession of our estate at Moll, if you 
have a friend who can wander over the heath with 
you, visit the beech-tree and the brook with you ; 
and to both of us he will be a companion in our 
solitude, which without love is dead and cold: 
the heart soon dries up without the dew which 
only another can shed upon it.” 

“ That may all be true, father, but Adolph is no 
son of the heath. He would never understand 
the speech of the grasshoppers ; no fir-tree shaded 
the plays of his youth, and the ocean-like im- 
mensity of the open moor would seem mere mono- 
tony to him that is a child of the mountain. Ah, 
father, confess it; between me and my darling 
heath he would stand but as a stranger !” 

Monica’s words fell unpleasantly on the colonel’s 
ear; his countenance clouded over, and, turning 
to his daughter, — 

“ Monica, my child,” he said, in a more serious 
tone, “ have then your father’s wishes no weight 
at all with you ? For years I have been Adolph’s 
earnest advocate with you, have done every thing 
to bring you together, and still you refuse it me 
to join your lot with his. But why ? Only that 
you may give up your whole soul to a dream 
that is killing you. You say that it is because 
you do not love him; well, then, he does not 
ask of you to love him.” 


RICKETICKETACK. 


73 


Monica stared on her father as in amazement. 

“Not ask of me to love him? What does he 
ask of me, then ?” 

Still more seriously and impressively the colonel 
went on: — “You compel me, Monica, to speak of 
things which should else never have passed my 
lips. For years past, my Monica, you have been 
hastening toward the grave, which, in truth, you 
are digging for yourself. I cannot look on you, 
my darling only child, without beholding the 
image of death at your side waiting to seize 
you. For years my heart has been tormented 
with the fear of losing you. This sword hang- 
ing over my head is wearing out my life too ; it 
keeps me in a state of suffering which I cannot 
describe. I have opened my anxious heart to 
Adolph: I have told him that there is but one 
way of rescuing you from your dark broodings 
and an early death. I have myself besought him, 
entreated him, to become a suitor for your heart 
and hand. He had already saved the father’s 
life ; he took upon him to save the child’s too, 
and to this end broke off‘ other ties ; he gave up 
the cherished hope of living with his old mother 
among his beloved mountains, to follow us to 
the barren heath. This he has done for your 
sake, that he may be your guardian angel watch- 
ing over you to drive away the evil spirit that 
threatens you. And can all this, Monica, awaken 
no more in you than mere commonplace gratitude ? 

7 


74 


RICKETICKETACK. 


Is every chord .in your heart dumb, that so the 
only answer you can give me is 4 Ho’ ? ” 

Monica was deeply moved, and showed it 
plainly enough on her countenance. 

“Father/’ at last she replied, “I have been 
ungrateful toward Adolph and toward you : that 
I acknowledge with deep sorrow. But what is 
it you ask of me? Do you not see that what 
you desire is to destroy all my remembrances 
of the past? If I consent to become Adolph’s 
wife, I cannot then but give him a prominent 
place in my heart; ungrateful I cannot be: I 
must repay his generosity with tenderness and 
affection, even if I cannot give him passionate 
love. But then I should have to give up every 
thing that remains to me from my former life, 
and ” 

The colonel’s eyes lighted up joyfully; he seized 
Monica’s hand. 

44 Dear child,” said he, 44 that is the very thing; 
you must give up your dreams to save your life. 
Tell me that you accept Adolph as your future 
husband; make me quite happy. My dearest 
child, say, I beg of you, say yes ! tell me that 
you accept him !” 

In evident agitation, Monica answered not; 
her head sank upon her breast. 

44 My child, my child!” pursued the colonel, 
44 don’t leave me any longer in uncertainty ; say 
yes ; do !” 

Slowly she raised her eyes, and replied, — 


RICKETICKETACK. 


75 


“ Well, then, father, if it will make you 
happy,” 

But at this moment a sudden shudder came 
over her; she raised her finger, and seemed 
listening, in an agony of attention, to some low 
or distant sound. 

“ What’s the matter with you ?” cried the colonel, 
in astonishment. 

“Hark! hark!” replied she, with a rapturous 
smile. 

And now the tones came nearer, and the colonel 
heard them too. 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

The iron’s warm ; 

Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 


He knew the power of that snatch of song 
upon Monica’s feelings; now it sounded to him 
as though thrown at him in scorn of his humble 
origin. In high wrath he pulled the bell, stamp- 
ing at the same time with his foot upon the 
floor. 

“I will know who it is that ventures to insult 
me here!” cried he. 

A servant came. The colonel went on : — 

“ There’s some insolent fellow singing outside ; 
take tfie other men with you and bring him in ; 
I’ll see who the fellow is. If he resists, use force.” 


76 


RICKETICKETACK. 


“ Father!” cried Monica, beseechingly, “ what’s 
that yon say? Use force? How do you know 
against whom ?” 

“We shall see,” replied the colonel, in high 
indignation. 

Monica returned to her work-table, and sat 
down with sufficiently mournful feelings. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


77 


CHAPTER X. 

The outer door was heard to open and shut 
again. Presently a servant appeared in the 
saloon : — 

“It’s nothing but a poor beggar, colonel, so 
weak and ill that he can hardly put one foot 
before the other. The poor fellow thought little 
enough of resisting; he’s there in the passage: 
hadn’t we better let him go again ?” 

“Ho, no,” cried the colonel; “I’ll get to the 
bottom of this ; there’s something behind. Why 
are you in such a tremble, Monica? Do you 
know this beggar ? Bring him in.” 

Hardly had the poor lad, with hanging head 
and downcast eyes, set his foot on the threshold, 
when Monica, with a loud cry, ran up to him, 
seized his hand, and exclaimed, — 

“ Heavens ! Jan ! is that you ?” 

“Yes, ’tis I,” he answered, without lifting up 
his eyes. 

The colonel stood a while in silence, rubbing 
his forehead, as though a sudden suspicion had 
arisen in him. It must soon have vanished, 
however, for he took Jan kindly by the arm, 
led him up to one of the high-backed velvet 
7 * 


78 


RICKETICKETACK. 


chairs, and made him sit down in it. Monica 
had never let go the hand she had taken; she 
too continued to look straight before her without 
speaking. 

The colonel returned to his seat. 

“ Jan van Dael,” he began, “ how’s this? Why 
didn’t you think of me when you were in trouble ? 
Didn’t I tell you that I would at all times help 
you and stand by you ? And now what misery 
you’ve fallen to ! But be easy ; from this time 
you shall want for nothing. Take heart; I’m 
not ungrateful, and I’ve a great debt to pay you.” 

. With these words, he went to a secretaire, took 
out a handful of Napoleons, laid them on a card- 
table by Jan, and went on : — 

“ See, my dear friend ; this is no alms that I’m 
offering you, but a little return for what you for- 
merly did for my Monica. I beg you will accept 
this from me as your friend.” 

Jan turned his sunk eyes from the table where 
the gold lay to the colonel, and with a sad smile 
said, — 

“ Money ! ever money, and nothing but money !” 

Then, with a look at his ragged clothes, he 
added, — 

“And yet money might stand me in some stead 
too ; I could get me some clothes, and do some- 
thing for the poor old woman that’s done so much 
for me. But you must spare me that, colonel; 
I couldn’t take money from you if I could buy 
oft’ death with it.” 


RICKETICKETACK. 


79 


Iii speaking these words, Jan made a motion 
with his hand which withdrew it from the hold 
that Monica still kept on it. The poor girl tot- 
tered to her chair, and sat down in silence, her 
eyes still fixed on the youth. 

“But, Jan, my friend,” proceeded the colonel, 
“you are unjust both to yourself and me. If you 
won’t take money from me, tell me how else I can 
help you. It will make me happy if you will 
point out to me any way in which I can serve 
you; and if you will do so, I shall feel that you 
are only adding to the reasons I have to be grate- 
ful to you.” 

“You wish to do me a service?” replied Jan. 
“Well, then, I will ask a favor of you; will you 
grant it me ?” 

“Speak, Jan; I will do "whatever you ask of 
me. What is it you wish ?” 

The young man raised himself in his chair, and 
spoke : — 

“ Colonel, to-morrow I am about to begin a 
new life, and mean to place an impassable barrier 
between my past and my future. It is not so 
easy to tear oneself loose from recollections that 
have grown fast into heart and brain, — that make 
a part, and no little one, of our very inmost life ; 
and in the struggle I might very well have fallen 
into the grave that seemed waiting for me. But 
now Providence has favored me; I find myself 
face to face with the only creature upon earth 
that can understand me. Let me only tell my 


80 


RICKETICKETACK. 


story, that she may know what my lot has been, 
and then I shall be able cheerfully to say farewell 
to the dream that is killing me. That, colonel, 
is the favor which I have to ask of you. Let me 
speak out, and don’t be angry at what I shall say, 
and you will give me more than life.” 

There was something in Jan’s manner at once 
so pleasing and telling of, so much suffering that 
the colonel felt deeply affected. Moreover, he 
was not a little curious to hear an exposition which 
might perhaps confirm more than one conjecture 
which had arisen in him within the last few days. 
In a kind tone of voice, then, he replied, — 

“ Speak, my friend ; I will listen attentively.” 

The young man began then, with a voice full 
of emotion : — 

“I was young, contented with my lot, full of 
life and spirits. My heart impelled me to see a 
sister in a servant, and the more she had to suffer 
the more affection I felt for her. It was a pure, 
innocent feeling, which imperceptibly took root 
in my breast, though afterward it turned to a con- 
suming fire. To this very hour, colonel, I feel 
my hand burn when I think of the Napoleons 
you put into it that day upon' the heath. You 
thought to console me for the loss of my sister 
with coin! That was a death-blow to me; that 
showed me at once the immeasurable extent of 
my calamity: despair took a fast hold upon my 
heart, which your departure had already so cruelly 
torn; I forgot every thing but one thought, for 


KICKETICKETACK. 


81 


which alone I lived. Nothing could console me, 
nothing calm me ; I was useless at my work, in- 
different to every thing; I lived in a world of 
painful dreams. I saw my mother on a sick-bed, 
but my breast had no room for any new sorrow. 
They tried to tear me away from my accustomed 
scenes of life; they hoped that, removed from 
them, I should soon recover ; but I resisted : re- 
monstrances and supplications were alike lost on 
me. Why? Because the sky over the heath is 
bluer? Because its atmosphere is fraught with 
fragrance? Because the sense of endlessness trans- 
ported me? Ah, no ! — she had lived and wan- 
dered there, and I knew every spot of turf on 
which she had once sat, every tree which her hand 
had touched, every plant which her tears had be- 
dewed ; I suffered, because I regarded her as lost 
forever. At last I yielded to my mother’s prayers 
and tears and our old pastor’s advice, and set off 
for Mechlin, there to study and to seek in the 
duties of the ministry a protection against my 
recollections. 

“ Ah me ! what suffering did I not go through 
in the seminary ! The acquisition of knowledge, 
the reading of the ancient authors, developed my 
imagination more and more; and now I became 
utterly a slave to my dreams. I avoided all com- 
panions, and sought myself out quiet nooks, 
where I could give myself up to re very and hum 
over and over her favorite tune. I was the jest 
of all my fellow-students; but that made just as 


82 


RICKETICKETACK. 


little impression on me as the rebukes of my 
teacher. At last the time came when I had to 
declare whether I would take orders or not. But, 
God help me ! how could I do that ? I was un- 
worthy to approach the altar; I declined, and 
left the seminary. My mother had meanwhile 
died. I had still remaining something of my in- 
heritance. I dreamed away my life in total reck- 
lessness. Regardless of the future, I consumed 
what little I had left. That year I fell into the 
uttermost distress ; but that affected me not at 
all; I slept under the blue sky, under wagons, 
upon the ramparts. Nothing could move me or 
wake me up from my apathy.” 

Here Jan paused a while ; his breath came hea- 
vily with very exhaustion. 

Monica leaned her hand upon the table and 
wept bitterly ; the colonel sat with his eyes fixed 
on the ground. 

At last Jan proceeded : — 

“ One day, as I was wandering half in despair 
along the Place de Meir, she that I had thought 
lost forever to me passed rapidly in a carriage. 
The shock deprived me for the moment of my 
senses. As soon as I recovered, I fled into the 
most unfrequented corner of the town. At night, 
weary with my wanderings, I lay down on a cart 
to rest, fell from it in my sleep, and so struck my 
head on the pavement in my fall that I lay there 
senseless and > bleeding. A poor woman took me 
home to her garret and tended me. From that 


RICKETICKETACK; 


83 


time my whole heart was given to her. I had 
desired to die ; now I had something to live for, 
— to return her love and repay her kindness. 
And now let me go ; forget, colonel, what I have 
suffered for your daughter’s sake. I acquit you 
of all obligation toward me ; only forgive me the 
words which in my despair I have spoken to you ; 
you shall never again hear or see aught of me. 
Farewell! and may God bless you !” 

With these last words Jan had risen and was 
approaching the door, when suddenly Monica 
started from her chair, dashed her hand across 
her eyes and forehead, clearing the one of tears, 
the other of straggling curls, and cried, with a 
gesture almost as of command, — 

44 Stay ! Oh, stay !” 

Then, folding her hands as in prayer, and throw- 
ing herself at her father’s feet, she went on : — 

44 Ah ! forgive me ! forgive me, father ! keep 
him here, or I die ! His image too was one of 
those which floated before me in my dreams ; he 
is my brother; he was my faithful protector; I 
love him. He alone it is that can save me. Oh ! 
keep him here !” 

The colonel made haste to raise his daughter 
from the ground; then, with deep emotion, he 
spoke : — 

44 So, that was the mystery! What a heart! 
Be it so, Monica, my child. Belong to one an- 
other!” 

A short sharp exclamation was all the reply 


84 


RICKETICKETACK. 


Jan could make. He supported himself on a 
chair that stood near; then, overpowered with 
joy and happiness, he sank upon it. Monica 
hastily threw her arms about him ; the colonel’s 
eyes filled with tears. 


RICKETICKETACK. 


85 


CHAPTER XI. 

One day in 1881, shortly after the Belgian Revo- 
lution, a soldier was crossing the heath between 
Moll and Desschel, his musket on his shoulder 
his knapsack on his back. He went up to a large 
farm-house — one might almost rather say a landed 
proprietor's mansion — and showed his billet to a 
man that was standing in the doorway, who there- 
upon called a servant-girl, and the two together 
immediately relieved their guest of his various 
burdens. Astonished at this unusually good 
reception, the soldier clapped his host on the 
shoulder. 

“You’ve served, farmer?” said he. 

“Yot I,” replied the farmer; “but within there 
you’ll find one that can talk to you as much as 
you please of war and battles. Come in, friend, 
there’s beer and ham just now on the table.” 

The soldier entered the sitting-room ; there by 
the fireplace sat a man whose gray hair and vene- 
rable features inspired respect at the first look. 
A long scar on his face, the riband of the Legion 
of Honor at his buttonhole, sufficiently indicated 
that it was he of whom the farmer had spoken. 
He greeted the soldier with a smile of welcome, 
8 


86 


RICKETICKETACK. 


and tlien pointed to the table, as though to say, 
“Eat and drink first, and then we’ll talk.” 

The guest followed the hint with hearty good- 
will, casting meanwhile stolen looks of curiosity 
on the different persons who made up the com- 
pany. In the background sat the mistress of the 
house (so she appeared), at her spinning-wheel ; 
by her stood the man who had received him at 
the door. Health and contentment beamed upon 
their countenances. On the other side of the mis- 
tress sat an old woman, plying with busy fingers 
the bobbins of adace cushion. 

The soldier’s eyes were still occupied with this 
group, when his attention was attracted by a 
strange ditty from behind him. He turned about, 
and there on each knee of the old man with the 
scar sat a chubby, red-cheeked child, a boy and 
a girl ; the old man was singing, and dancing the 
children on his knee to the tune. 

It was not long before the young soldier had 
improved his acquaintance with the inhabitants 
of the farm ; and so at home did he feel himself 
in this family — all the members of which seemed 
bound together by closest ties of love and grati- 
tude, and treated him as one of themselves — that 
it cost him not a few tears when after a stay of 
two months he had to quit this peaceful and 
happy retreat. 

His knapsack on his back, he stood at the door 
ready for his march ; all the family pressed round 
him, with many a friendly shake of the hand. At 


RICKETICKETACK. 


87 


last he tore himself away, but at a little distance 
turned once again, and cried out, in a voice of 
deep emotion, — 

“ Farewell, Colonel Van Milgem ! Farewell, 
Farmer Van Dael ! Farewell, mistress ! Farewell, 
Granny Teerlinck !” 

As he crossed the heath, the soldier said to 
himself, — 

“ Now, if I had the knack of it, I’d set it down 
on paper all that they told me there. And as it 
is, perhaps, I’ll try to. Ah, well ! that’s a dream.” 

And with these words he stepped out, in march- 
ing time, to a tune that he sang till it sounded 
over the heath as he went : — 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

The iron’s warm ; 

Up with your arm. 

Now strike, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

“ Ricketicketack, 

Ricketicketoo ; 

Strike while it’s hot, 

And tarry not. 

Again, one, two, 

Ricketicketoo.” 

You see, kind reader, that, after all, the young 
soldier has been as good as his word. 

H. C. 

THE END. 

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BALTIMORE: 

MURPHY & CO., 182 BALTIMORE STREET. 
PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1856. 



















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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 


JOHN MURPHY & CO. 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Maryland. 


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J)«kt to tlje ^mcricait 6bition. 

The story of “The Poor Gentleman,” now given in 
our language for the first time, is one of the series in which 
M. Conscience has delineated various grades of female 
character in positions of trial. In “ The Village Innkeeper” 
he has shown the weaker traits of woman distracted between 
an inborn sense of propriety and a foolish ambition for high 
life. In the “Conscript” his heroine displays the nobler 
virtues of uncorrupted humble life; and, with few charac- 
ters, taken from the lowest walks, he shows the triumph of 
honest, straightforward earnestness and pertinacious cou- 
rage, even when they are brought in conflict with authority. 
“The Poor Gentleman” closes the series; and, selecting a 
heroine from the educated classes of his country-people, 
M. Conscience has demonstrated how superior a genuine 
woman becomes to all the mishaps of fortune, and how 
successfully she subdues that imaginary fate before which 
so many are seen to fall. 

It would be difficult to describe this remarkable work 
without analyzing the tale and criticizing its personages. 
This would anticipate the author and mar the interest of 
his story. We must confine ourselves, therefore, to general 
remarks on its structure and characteristics. 

Pontmartin, the distinguished French feuilletonist , says, 
in one of his “Literary Chats,” that these simple stories 
are “ pearls set in Flemish gold, — a gold which alchemysts 
seek for in alembics and furnaces, but which Conscience 
has found in the inexhaustible veins of nature.” “ The Poor 
Gentleman,” he remarks. “ is a tale of not more than a hun- 


6 


PREFACE. 


dred and fifty pages ; but I would not give its shortest chap- 
ter for all the romances I ever read. The perplexed De 
Ylierbeck — who ought to have had Caleb Balderstone for 
a servant — is one of those characters that engrave them- 
selves indelibly on our memory.” In every trait and detail 
the author has attained a photographic minuteness, which, 
while it is distinct and sharp, never interferes with that 
motion, breadth, and picturesque effect that impart life and 
reality to a story. Nor can we doubt that it will be read 
and re-read as long as there is a particle of that feeling 
among us which installed the Vicar of Wakefield, Paul and 
Virginia, the Crock of Gold, the Sketch-book, and the Tales 
of a Traveller, among the heirlooms of every tasteful 
household. The “Tales of Flemish Life” are additions to 
that rare stock of home-literature which is at once amiable 
and gentle, simple and affectionate, familiar and tender, 
and which meets a quick response from every honest heart 
and earnest spirit. 

If it be objected that the stories are too short and sketchy 
for the praise that has been bestowed on them, it may be 
answered that in their translation we have had the best 
opportunity to observe the skill, power, and perception of 
character which constitute their real merit. Simple as 
they seem, they are written with masterly art. In design, 
elaborateness, tone, and finish, they resemble the works of 
the Flemish School which have made us familiar with the 
Low Countries and their people through the pictures of 
Ruysdael, Teniers, and Ostade. There is scarcely a leaf 
that does not display some of those recondite or evanescent 
secrets of human nature which either escape ordinary 
writers, or, when found by them, are spread out over a 
volume instead of being condensed into a page. 

Baltimore , August , 1856. The TRANSLATOR. 


THE 


POOR GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

Near the end of July, 1842, an open caliche 
might have been seen rolling along one of the 
three highways that lead from the frontiers of 
Holland toward Antwerp. Although the vehicle 
had evidently been cleaned with the utmost care, 
every thing about it betokened decay. Its joints 
were open, discolored, and weather-beaten, and it 
swung from side to side on its springs like a rickety 
skeleton. Its patched leathers shone in the sun- 
shine with the oil that had been used to freshen 
th.em, hut the borrowed lustre could not hide the 
cracks and repairs with which they were defaced. 
The door-handles and other parts of the vehicle 
that were made of copper had been carefully 
polished, and the vestiges of silver-plating, still 
visible in the creases of the ornaments, denoted 
a former richness which had been almost entirely 
worn out by time and use. 

The caRche was drawn by a stout, heavy horse, 
whose short and lumbering gait intimated very 


8 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


clearly that he was oftener employed in the plough 
and cart than in carrying his owner toward the 
capital. 

A peasant-hoy of seventeen or eighteen was 
perched on the driver’s seat. He was in livery; 
a tarnished gold band adorned his hat, and brass 
buttons glistened on his coat ; but the hat fell over 
his ears, and the coat was so large that the driver 
seemed lost in it as in a bag. The garments had 
been worn by many of the lackey’s predecessors 
on the box, and, in a long series of years, had 
doubtless passed from coachman to coachman till 
they descended to their present possessor. 

The only person in the vehicle was a man about 
fifty years old. He was unquestionably the master 
of both servant and cabriolet, for his look and de- 
portment commanded respect and consideration. 
With head depressed and moody air, he sat mo- 
tionless and dreamy in his seat till he heard the 
approach of other vehicles, when, suddenly lifting 
his eyes, he would salute the strangers graciously 
and then instantly relapse into his former attitude. 
A moment’s glance at this person was sufficient 
to excite an interest in him. His face, though 
hard and wrinkled, was so regular and noble in 
its contour, his look so mild and yet so earnest 
and penetrating, his broad brow so clear and lofty, 
that the most careless observer could not doubt 
that he was endowed with the best qualities of 
human nature. Besides this, there were unques- 
tionable indications that he had been a sufferer. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


9 


If a simple glance at his features did not impress 
one with a conviction of this fact, it was confirmed 
by the fringe of silvery hair that straggled over his 
temples, and the sombre, melancholy fire that glim- 
mered in his eyes like the last rays of expiring hope. 

His dress was in perfect keeping with his phy- 
siognomy. It was of that neat and simple style 
which always characterizes a man of the world 
who is governed by refined and elegant tastes. 
His linen was spotlessly white, his cloth extremely 
fine, and his well-brushed hat shone smartly in the 
sunshine. Occasionally, as some one passed on 
the road, he might be seen to draw forth a hand- 
some gold snufi-box and inhale a pinch with so 
graceful an air that an observer would he con- 
vinced he belonged to the highest classes of 
society. A malicious eye, it is true, might have 
discovered by close inspection that the brush had 
been too familiar with his coat and worn it thread- 
bare, that his silk hat had been doctored to pre- 
serve its lustre and smoothness, and that his gloves 
were elaborately darned. If an inquisitive critic 
could have pried into the bottom of the vehicle, 
he would have detected a large crack in the side 
of the left boot, beneath which a gray stocking 
had been carefully masked with ink. Still, all 
these signs of poverty were so artfully concealed, 
and his dress worn with so careless an air of opu- 
lence and ease, that every body might have sup- 
posed the traveller did not put on better clothes 
only because he had a whim for bad ones. 


10 


TIIE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


The caleche had rolled along rapidly for about 
two hours, when the driver suddenly drew up at a 
small inn on the dike outside of the city of Ant- 
werp. The landlady and groom instantly sallied 
forth, and by their profound salutations and civility 
exhibited their marked respect for a well-known 
stranger. 

“ It’s a fine day, Monsieur Ylierheck, isn’t it ?” 
said the dame; “yet it’s a trifle warm, however. 
Don’t you think it w T ould be well for the high- 
grounds if we had a sprinkle more of rain, Mon- 
sieur Ylierheck? Shall we give the horse some 
hay, Monsieur Ylierheck ? But stay : I see, now, 
your coachman has brought his hay with him. 
Will you take any thing, Monsieur Ylierheck?” 

While the hostess was pouring forth this torrent 
of questions, Monsieur De Ylierheck got out of the 
vehicle, and, entering the house, addressed the 
most flattering compliments to the dame about 
her good looks, inquired as to the health of each 
of her children, and finished by apprizing her that 
he was obliged to be in town instantly. There- 
upon, shaking her cordially by the hand, yet with 
a condescending air that marked and preserved 
the distance between them, he gave his orders to 
his lackey, and, with a farewell bow, walked toward 
the bridge leading into the city. 

At a solitary spot on the outer rampart Monsieur 
De Ylierheck stopped, looked round as if to see if 
any one was observing him, dusted his garments, 
brushed his hat with a handkerchief, and then 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


11 


passed on through the Porte Rouge into the city 
of Antwerp. 

As he entered a town where he was likely to 
find himself constantly an object of notice, he as- 
sumed a lofty carriage and self-satisfied air, which 
might have deceived any one into the belief that he 
was the happiest man on earth. And yet — alas, 
poor gentleman ! — he was a prey to the profoundest 
agony ! He was, perhaps, about to suffer humilia- 
tion , — a humiliation that would cut him to the 
very heart ! But there was a being in the world 
whom he loved better than his life or honor, — his 
only child, his daughter! For her — how fre- 
quently had he already sacrificed his pride, how 
frequently had he suffered the pangs of martyr- 
dom ! Still, so great a slave was he to this pas- 
sionate love that every new endurance, every new 
trial, raised him in his own estimation and exalted 
his pain into something that ennobled and sancti- 
fied his very nature ! 

His heart beat violently as he entered deeper 
and deeper into the heart of the city and ap- 
proached the house he was about to visit. Soon 
after he stopped at a door, and, as he pulled the 
hell, his hand trembled violently in spite of extra- 
ordinary self-control; but as soon as a servant 
answered the summons he became master of him- 
self again. 

“Is the notary in?” inquired the old gentleman. 
The servant replied affirmatively, and, showing the 


12 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


visitor into a small room, went to apprize his 
master. 

As soon as Monsieur De Vlierbeck was alone, 
he put his right foot over the left to hide the rent 
in his boot, drew forth the gold snuff-box, and 
made ready to take a pinch. 

The notary came in. He was a spare, business- 
looking man, and was preparing to salute his 
guest graciously, but no sooner did he perceive 
who it was than his face grew dark and assumed 
that reserved air with which a cautious man arms 
himself when he expects a request which he is 
predetermined to refuse. Instead, therefore, of 
lavishing on Monsieur De Ylierbeck the compli- 
ments with which he habitually welcomed his 
visitors, the notary confined himself to a few cold 
words of recognition and then sat down silently 
in front of him. 

Wounded and humbled by this ungracious re- 
ception, poor De Ylierbeck was seized with a chill 
and became slightly pale ; still, he managed to rally 
his nerves, as he remarked, affably, — 

“Pray excuse me, sir; but, pressed by imperious 
necessity, I have come once more to appeal to your 
kindness for a small service.” 

“What is it you wish of me?” answered the 
notary, tartly. 

“I wish you to find another loan of a thousand 
francs for me, — or even less, — secured by a mort- 
gage on my property. I do not want all the money 
at once, but I have especial need of two hundred 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


13 


francs , which I must ask the favor of you to lend 
me to-day. I trust you will not deny me this 
trifling loan, which will extricate me from the 
deepest embarrassment.” 

“A thousand francs , on mortgage?” growled 
the notary; “and who, pray, will guarantee the 
interest? Your property is already mortgaged for 
more than it is worth.” 

“ Oh ! you are mistaken, sir,” exclaimed Mon- 
sieur De Vlierbeck, anxiously. 

“Not the least in the world! By order of the 
persons who have already accommodated you with 
money, I caused your property to be appraised at 
the very highest rates ; and the consequence is that 
your creditors will not get back their loans unless 
it shall sell for an extraordinary price. Permit 
me to say, sir, that you have acted very foolishly : 
had I been in your place, I would not have sacri- 
ficed all my fortune, and my wife’s too, to save a 
worthless fellow, even though he had been my 
brother!” 

De Ylierbeck frowned, as a painful recollection 
shot through his mind, but said nothing, though 
his hand grasped the golden snuff-box as if he 
would have crushed it. 

“ By that imprudent act,” continued the notary, 
“you have plunged yourself and your child into 
absolute want ; for you can no longer disguise it. 
For ten years — and God knows at what cost — you 
have been able to keep the secret of your ruin ; 
but the inevitable hour is approaching, Monsieur 
2 


14 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


De Ylierbeck, when you will be forced to surrender 
every thing!” 

De Ylierbeck riveted a look of doubt and agony 
on the notary as the latter continued : — 

“I must tell you frankly the condition of your 
affairs. Monsieur de Hoogebaen died during his 
journey in Germany ; his heirs found your bond for 
four thousand francs , and have directed me not to 
renew it. If Monsieur Hoogebaen was your friend 
his heirs certainly are not. During ten years you 
have failed to cancel this debt, and have paid two 
thousand francs interest; so that, for your own 
sake, it is time the transaction should be closed. 
Four months are still left, Monsieur Ylierbeck, be- 
fore the expiration of ” 

“ Only four months !” interrupted the poor gen- 
tleman, in a distressed tone ; “ only four months, 
and then oh, God !” 

“ Then your property will be sold according to 
law,” said the notary, dryly, finishing the sentence. 
“I can well understand, sir, that this is a painful 
prospect ; but, as it is a decree of fate that no one 
can control, you have nothing to do but prepare 
to receive the blow. Let me offer to sell your 
estate as if you 4 were leaving the country.’ By that 
means you will escape the mortification of a 
forced sale.” 

For seveml moments Monsieur De Ylierbeck 
remained silent, his face buried in his hands, as if 
crushed by the notary’s advice and callousness. 
At length he replied, calmly but humbly, — 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


15 


“Your counsel is, perhaps, wise and generous; 
yet I will not follow it. You know that all my 
sacrifices, my painful life, my constant agony, 
have been patiently endured for the sake of my 
only child. You alone know that all I do has hut 
one purpose, — a purpose which I hold sacred. I 
have reason to believe that God is about granting 
the earnest prayer I have daily offered for ten 
years. My daughter is beloved by a rich gentle- 
man, whose character I think I may confide in, 
and his family appears to sympathize in all his 
views. Four months! it is but a short time, 
alas ! yet, ought I, by anticipating the legal period 
of a sale, to destroy all my fond hopes ? Ought I 
instantly to welcome misery for myself and my 
child when I see the chance of sure relief from all 
we have suffered ?” 

“ Then you want to deceive these people, whoever 
they may be ? Do you not suppose that by such 
a course of conduct you may make your daughter 
still more wretched?” 

At the word “ deceive ” the poor gentleman 
winced as if stung by an adder, while a nervous 
thrill ran through his limbs and suffused his face 
with a blush of shame. 

“Deceive!” echoed he, bitterly; “oh, no! but I 
dare not, by a rash avowal of my want, stifle the 
love that is growing up mutually. Whenever it 
becomes necessary to be decided, I will make a 
loyal disclosure of my condition. If the declara- 
tion ruin my hopes I will follow your advice. I 
U 


16 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


will sell all I have ; I will quit the country and 
seek in some foreign land to maintain myself and 
my beloved child by teaching.” He stopped for 
a moment, as if swallowing his grief, and then 
continued, in a lower tone, half speaking to him- 
self, “ And, yet, did I not promise my dear wife 
on her death-bed — did I not promise it on the holy 
cross — that our child should not undergo such a 
fate? Ten years of suffering — ten abject years — 
have not sufficed to realize my promise ; and now, 
at last, a feeble ray of hope struggles into my 

sombre future ” He grasped the notary’s 

hand, looked wildly but earnestly into his eyes, 
and added, in suppliant tones, “Oh, my friend, 
help me ! help me in this last and trying effort ; do 
not prolong my torture ; grant my prayer, and as 
long as I live I will bless my benefactor, the savior 
of my child !” 

The notary withdrew his hand as he answered, 
with some embarrassment, “Yet, Monsieur De 
Ylierbeck, I cannot comprehend w T hat all this has 
to do with the loan of a thousand francs !” . 

De Ylierbeck thrust his rejected hand into his 
pocket as he replied, “Yes, sir, it is ridiculous, is 
it not, to fall so low and to see one’s happiness or 
misery depend on things about which other per- 
sons may laugh? And yet, alas! so it is! The 
young gentleman of whom I spoke to you is to 
dine with us to-morrow in company with his uncle, 
— the uncle invited himself, — and we have abso- 
lutely nothing to give them ! Besides this, my child 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


17 


needs some trifles to appear decently before the 
guests, and it is probable that the civility will be 
returned by an invitation from them. Our isola- 
tion cannot long conceal our want. Sacrifices of 
all kinds have already been made to prevent our 
bein^ overwhelmed with mortification.” As he 
uttered these last words he drew forth his hand from 
his pocket with about two francs in small change, 
which he held exposed on his palm before the 
notary. “And now, behold,” continued he, with a 
bitter smile, — “ behold every cent I have in the 
world ; and to-morrow rich people are to dine at 
my house ! If my poverty is betrayed by any 
thing, farewell to my child’s prospects ! For 
God’s sake, my good friend, be generous, and help 
me !” 

“A thousand francs !” muttered the notary, 
shaking his head; “I can’t deceive my clients, 
sir. What pledge can you give to secure the 
loan? You possess nothing which is not already 
mortgaged beyond its value.” 

“A thousand! five hundred! two hundred!” 
cried De Ylierbeck. “ Lend me, at least, something 
to relieve me from this cruel difficulty !” 

“I have no disposable funds,” replied the no- 
tary, coldly. “ In a fortnight perhaps I may have 
some; but even then I could promise nothing 
positively.” 

“ Then, for the sake of friendship, I beseech 
you, lend me some money yourself!” 

“I could never expect that you would return 
2 * 


18 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


what I might lend,” said the notary, contemptu- 
ously; “and so it is an alms you ask of me?” 

Poor De Vlierbeck trembled on his chair and 
became pale as ashes ; his eyes flashed wildly and 
his brow knotted with frowns. Yet he quickly 
curbed the unwonted agitation, bow^d his head, 
and sighed, resignedly, “ Alms ! Alas ! so be it ! 
let me drink the very dregs of this bitter cup : it 
is for my child /” 

The notary went to a drawer and took from it 
some five-franc-pieces, which he offered to his 
visitor. It is difficult to say whether the poor 
gentleman was wounded by the actual receipt of 
charity, or whether the sum was too small to be 
useful ; but, without touching the money, he 
glanced angrily at the silver and fell back in his 
chair, covering his face with his hands. 

Just at this moment a servant entered, an- 
nouncing another visitor; and, as soon as the 
lackey left the apartment, Monsieur De Vlierbeck 
sprang from his chair, dashing away the tears that 
had gathered in his eyes. The notary pointed to 
the money, which he laid on the corner of the 
table; but the mortified guest turned away his 
head with a gesture of repugnant refusal. 

“Pardon my boldness, sir,” said he, “but I have 
now only one favor to ask of you 

“And it is ?” 

“That you will keep my secret for my daugh- 
ter’s sake.” 

‘ Oh, as to that, make yourself easy. You know 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


19 


me well enough to be aware of my discretion. 
Do you decline this trifling aid?” 

“Thanks! thanks!” cried the gentleman, push- 
ing away the notary’s hand ; and, trembling as if 
seized by a sudden chill, he rushed from the room 
and the house without waiting for the servant to 
open the door. 

Utterly overcome by the terrible blow to his 
hopes, beside himself with mortification, with his 
head hanging on his bosom and his eyes bent 
staringly on the ground, the poor fellow ran about 
the streets for a considerable length of time with- 
out knowing what he was about or whither he 
was going. At length the stern conviction of 
want and duty partially aroused him from his 
feverish dream, and he walked on rapidly in the 
direction of the gate of Borgenhout, till he found 
himself entirely alone among the fortifications. 

He had no sooner reached this solitary quarter 
than a terrible conflict seemed to begin within 
him ; his lips quivered and muttered incoherently, 
while his face exhibited a thousand different ex- 
pressions of suffering, shame, and hope. After a 
while he drew forth from his pocket the golden 
snuff-box, looked long and sadly on the armorial 
engravings that adorned it, and then fell into a 
reverie, from which he suddenly aroused himself 
as if about taking a solemn resolution. With his 
eyes intently fixed on the box, he began to oblite- 
rate the arms with his knife, as he murmured, in 
a voice of tremulous emotion, — 


20 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“ Remembrancer of my dear and excellent mo- 
ther, protecting talisman that has so long con- 
cealed my misery and which I invoked as a 
sacred shield whenever poverty was on the eve of 
betraying me, last fragment of my ancestry, I 
must bid thee farewell ; and — alas ! alas ! — my own 
hand must profane and destroy thee ! God grant 
that the last service thou wilt ever render me 
may save us from overwhelming humiliation !” 

A tear trickled down his wan cheek as his voice 
became still; but he went on with his task of 
obliteration till every trace of the crest and shield 
disappeared from the emblazoned lid. After 
this he returned to the heart of the town and 
passed through a number of small and lonely 
streets, glancing eagerly, but askance, at the signs 
as he passed onward in his agitation. 

An hour had certainly elapsed in this bootless 
wandering, when he entered a narrow lane in the 
quarter of Saint Andre and uttered a sudden cry 
of joy as he caught a glimpse of the object for 
which he was in search. His eye lighted on a 
sign which bore the simple but ominous inscrip- 
tion : — “ Sworn Pawnbroker.” He passed by the 
door and walked rapidly to the end of the lane ; 
then, turning hastily, he retraced his steps, hasten- 
ing or lingering as he noticed any one passing in 
his neighborhood, till at length he crept along the 
wall to the door, and, seeing the thoroughfare 
almost empty, rushed into the house and dis- 
appeared. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


21 


After a considerable time De Ylierbeck came 
forth from the money-lender’s and quickly gained 
another street. There was a slight expression of 
satisfaction in his eyes ; but the bright blush that 
suffused his haggard cheeks gave token of the 
new humiliation through which the sufferer had 
passed. Walking rapidly from street to street, he 
soon reached a pastry-cook’s, where he filled a 
basket with a stuffed turkey, a pie, preserves, and 
various other smaller equipments for the table, 
and, paying for his purchases, told the cook that 
he would send his servant for the packages. Far- 
ther on he bought a couple of silver spoons and a 
pair of ear-rings from a jeweller, and then pro- 
ceeded on his way, probably to make additional 
acquisitions for the proposed entertainment. 


CHAPTER II. 

In our wild and thorny region of the North a 
brave and toilsome peasantry have long been en- 
gaged in victorious conflict with the barren sleep 
to which nature seemed to have condemned the 
soil. They have stirred up the sterile depths and 
watered them with their sweat ; they have sum- 
moned science and industry to their aid, drained 
marshes, diverted the streamlets that descended 


22 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


toward the Meuse from the highlands and put 
them in circulation through innumerable arteries 
to fatten and enrich the land. What a glorious 
fight it was of man against matter ! What a 
magnificent triumph it has been to convert the 
unthrifty Campine* into a fruitful and luxurious 
region ! Indeed, our descendants will hardly be- 
lieve their own eyes when in future times they 
shall behold grass-covered plains, flowery mea- 
dows, and fields waving with grain, where the 
lingering patriarchs of our day may point out the 
sites of burning sand-pits and barren moors ! 

North of the city of Antwerp, toward the fron- 
tiers of Holland, there are but few traces of this 
gradual improvement. It is only along highroads 
that the traveller begins to observe the effect of 
liberal agriculture on the sandy soil, while, far- 
ther on toward the heart of the region, every thing 
is still bare and uncultivated. As far as the eye 
can penetrate, nothing is to be seen in that quarter 
but arid plains thinly covered with stunted vege- 
tation, while the horizon is bounded by that blue 
and cloudy line which always marks the limit of a 
desert. Yet, as we journey over these vast spaces, 
it is impossible not to observe, from time to time, 
that a clear and slender rivulet meanders here and 


* The Flemings have given the name of Campine to the vast 
uncultivated spaces extending in the north of Belgium from the 
vicinity of Antwerp to Venloo. The improvement of the Campine , 
undertaken on a large scale within some years, has already pro- 
duced the happiest results. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


23 


there over the moor, and that its verdant banks 
are studded with vigorous plants and thrifty 
trees; while in many places the hardy sons of 
toil who took advantage of the neighboring water, 
have opened their lonely farms, built comfortable 
houses, and frequently gathered themselves toge- 
ther in neat and thrifty villages. 

In one of these spots, where meadow-land and 
pasturage have made agriculture profitable, and 
by the side of an unfrequented road, there is a 
farm of considerable size and value. The massive 
trees which spread their thick shade on every 
side attest that the spot has been occupied and 
cultivated for several generations. Besides, the 
ditches which surround it, and the stone bridge 
that leads to the principal gate, justify the belief 
that the estate has some right to be considered a 
lordly demesne. In the neighborhood it is known 
as Grinselhof. The 'entire front of the property 
is covered by the homestead of the farmer, compris- 
ing his stables and granges; so that, in fact, every 
thing in their rear is concealed by these edifices 
as w T ell as by dense thickets and hedges which are 
growing in all the wild luxuriance of nature. In- 
deed, the dwelling of the proprietor was a mys- 
tery even to the farmer who worked the soil ; for 
its surrounding copses were an impenetrable veil 
to his eyes, beyond which neither he nor his fa- 
mily were ever allowed tq pass without special 
permission. 

Within this lonely and sacred precinct, buried 


24 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


in foliage, was a large house, called The Chateau, 
inhabited by a gentleman and his daughter, who, 
without a single servant, companion, or attendant, 
led the lonely lives of hermits. The neighbors 
said that it was avarice or ill-humor that induced 
a person possessed of so beautiful an estate to 
bury himself in such a solitude. The farmer who 
worked on the property carefully avoided all ex- 
planations as to the conduct or purpose of the 
proprietor, and sedulously respected the myste- 
rious habits and fancies of his master. His busi- 
ness prospered; for the soil was fertile and tho 
rent low. Indeed, he was grateful to his landlord, 
and, every Sunday, lent him a horse, which car- 
ried him and his daughter, in their weather- 
beaten cattche, to the village church. On great 
occasions the farmer’s son performed the duty of 
lackey for the proprietor. 

It is an afternoon of one of the last days of 
July. The sun has nearly finished his daily 
course, and is declining rapidly toward the horizon ; 
still, his rays, though less ardent than at noontide, 
are hot enough to make the air close and stifling. 
At Grinselhof the last beams of the setting lumi- 
nary play gayly over the foliage, gilding the tree- 
tops with sparkling light, while, on the eastern 
side of the dense foliage, the long, broad shadows 
begin to fall athwart the sward, and prepare the 
groves for the gentle and refreshing breeze that 
springs up at twilight. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


25 


Sadness and gloom hang over the sombre cha- 
teau and its grounds ; a deathlike silence weighs 
like a gravestone on the desolate scene ; the birds 
are songless ; the wind is still ; not a leaf stirs ; 
and light alone seems to he living in that dreary 
solitude. No one could observe the entire absence 
of noise, motion, and vitality, without being im- 
pressed with the idea that nature had been sud- 
denly plunged in a deep and magic sleep. 

Suddenly the foliage at the end of a thicket in 
the distance is seen to stir, while a cloud of twit- 
tering birds, frightened from the herbage, flies ra- 
pidly across the little path, which is immediately 
occupied by a young female dressed entirely in 
white, who dashes from between the branches 
with a silken net in pursuit of a butterfly. The 
beautiful apparition, with loose and streaming 
hair, seemed rather to fly than run, as her light 
and rapid steps, full of eagerness and animation, 
scarcely touched the earth while darting after the 
gaudy insect. How graceful she is, as, halting for 
an instant beneath the coquettish moth, she looks 
up to behold its gold-and-purple wings dancing 
round her head, mocking and playing with its 
gay pursuer ! She thinks she has caught it ; but, 
alas ! the edge of her net only touched the butter- 
fly’s wings, and away it dashes, over hedge and 
copse, far, far beyond her reach ! How beautiful 
she is, as, in that golden light, warmed with exer- 
cise and excitement, her eyes glistening, her lips 
parted, her graceful arms stretched upward, she 


26 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


stands gazing, half pleased, half disappointed, 
after the departing insect, til] it is lost in the 
evening sky! Wind and sunshine have slightly 
tanned her delicate cheeks, hut their roses are 
only heightened into the glow of perfect health. 
Beneath her high and polished brow, coal-black 
eyes shine through long and silken fringes, while 
a chiselled mouth discloses rows of faultless pearls 
between lips which shame the coral ! Her stately 
head is framed in masses of long, curling hair; 
and, as the locks are floated over her ivory shoul- 
ders by rapid motion, the proud and arching lines 
of her swan-like neck are fully displayed in all 
their splendor. Her form is lithe and supple, and 
its graceful contour is modestly marked by a 
snowy dress. As she lifts her head and gazes at 
the sky, a poet might easily fancy her to be some 
fanciful “ being of the air,” and convert her into 
the fairy queen of the solitary realm ! 

For a long while this beautiful woman wandered 
about the paths of the lonely garden, seemingly 
absorbed in reveries of various kinds. At times 
she was gay, 'at times sad. At length she ap- 
proached a bed of violets, which, from the train- 
ing of the plants, had evidently been carefully 
tended, and, observing that they languished under 
the intense heat of the past day, began to grieve 
over them. 

“ Alas ! my dear little flowers, why did I neglect 
to water you yesterday? You are very thirsty, 
are you not, my charming pets ?” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


27 


For a moment or two she was quiet, still gazing 
at the violets, and then continued, in the same 
dreamy tone : — 

“ But then, alas ! since yesterday my mind has 

been so disturbed, so happy, so ” Her eyes 

fell, and a blush crimsoned her cheeks, as she 
murmured, softly, “Gustave!” 

Motionless as a statue, and absorbed in her en- 
chanting dream, she forgot the poor little violets, 
and; probably, the whole world. 

“ His image ever, ever before me ! his voice 
ever ringing in my ears ! Why try to escape their 
fascination ? Oh, God ! what is this that is pass- 
ing within me? My heart trembles; sometimes 
my blood bounds wildly through my veins, and 
then again it creeps and freezes; and yet how 
happy I am ! what inexpressible joy fills my very 
soul!” 

She was silent ; then, seeming suddenly to rouse 
herself, she raised her head and threw back the 
thick curls, as if anxious to disembarrass her 
mind of a haunting thought. 

“ Wait, my dear flowers,” said she, smiling, to 
the violets; “wait a moment: I will comfort and 
refresh you.” 

With this she disappeared in the grove, and, in 
a short time, brought from it a few twigs and 
leaves, which she arranged in a little trellis over 
the flower-beds, so as to shadow the violets com- 
pletely from the sun. After this she took a small 
watering-pot and ran across the grass to a basin 


28 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


or tank in the middle of the garden, around 
which a number of weeping-willows drooped 
their branches into the water. On her arrival its 
surface was perfectly smooth ; but hardly had her 
image been reflected in the tank when it ap- 
peared to swarm with living creatures. Hundreds 
of gold-fishes, of all colors, swam toward her with 
their mouths gaping from the water, as if the poor 
little animals were trying to speak to her. Hold- 
ing on by the trunk of the nearest willow, she 
bent gracefully over the pond and tried to fill her 
watering-pot without touching the gold-fish. 

“ Come, come ; let me alone just now,” said she, 
as she carefully avoided them ; “ I haven’t time to 
play with you ; I will bring you your dinner after 
a while.” 

But the fish fluttered around the watering-pot 
until she withdrew it from the tank; and, even 
after her departure, continued to crowd toward 
the bank she had touched with her foot. 

The young lady watered her flowers and re- 
placed the pot gently on the ground ; then, re- 
tiring slowly to the solitary house, she returned 
after a while at the same slow pace, and, throwing 
some crumbs to the fish, began to saunter slowly 
about the garden-paths, inattentive to every thing 
but her own absorbing thoughts. At length she 
reached a spot where a gigantic catalpa-tree over- 
arched the garden and bent its branches almost to 
the earth. A table and a couple of chairs stood 
beneath the fresh and fragrant shade, and a book, 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


29 


inkstand, and embroidery-frame, gave token that 
the retreat had not long been abandoned by the 
lady herself. She seated herself in one of the 
chairs, took up the book, then the embroidery, let 
them fall one after another, and finally leaned her 
beautiful head on her hand, like one who is weary 
in spirit and anxious for rest. 

For awhile her large dreamy eyes w r ere vaguely 
fixed, as if gazing into space ; at intervals a smile 
played around her mouth, and her lips moved as 
if talking with a friend. Occasionally her droop- 
ing eyelids closed entirely ; but the lashes quickly 
reopened, only to fall more heavily than before, 
till at last a profound sleep or intense reverie 
seemed to get possession of her mind and 
body. 

But did she sleep ? There is no doubt that her 
spirit watched and was happy ; for a pleasant ex- 
pression constantly played over her features, and, 
if sometimes it became serious, the joyous look 
quickly returned with all its radiance. She had 
long been plunged by this happy dream into 
complete forgetfulness of real life, when a noise 
of wheels and the neigh of a horse was heard at 
the gateway, disturbing the silence of Grinselhof. 
Still the maiden was not aroused. 

The old caliche returned from the city, drew up 
near the stable, and the farmer and his wife ran 
out to salute their master and put up the horse. 
While they were thus engaged, Monsieur De Vlier- 
beck got out of the vehicle and spoke to them 
3 * 


30 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


kindly, but in a voice so full of sadness that both 
looked at him with astonishment. In fact, the 
gravity of this singular person never abandoned 
him even in his most affable moods ; but at that 
moment his physiognomy indicated a degree of in- 
tense depression which was by no means habitual. 
He seemed altogether worn out with fatigue, and 
his eyes, which were commonly so vivacious, 
drooped, dull and languishing, beneath their 
heavy lids. 

The horse was quickly put in the stable, and 
the young lackey, who had already divested him- 
self of his livery, took several baskets and packets 
from the vehicle, carried them into the farm- 
house, and placed them on the table of the ante- 
chamber. 

“ And now, Master John,” said De Ylierbeck, 
approaching the farmer, “I shall have need of 
you. There will be ( company to-morrow at Grin- 
selhof. Monsieur Denecker and his nephew dine 
here.” 

The farmer, perfectly stupefied by the announce- 
ment and scarcely able to believe his own ears, 
looked at his master with staring eyes and gaping 
mouth, and, after a moment’s hesitation, stam- 
mered forth, — 

“ That large, rich gentleman, sir, who sits near 
you every Sunday at high mass ?” 

“The same, John. Is there any thing sur- 
prising in it?” 

“ And young Monsieur Gustave, who spoke to 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


31 


mademoiselle in the. churchyard when church was 
over?” 

“ The same !” 

“Oh, sir, they are such rich people! They 
have bought all the land around Echelpoel. They 
have at least ten horses in the stable at their 
chateau , without counting those they have in 
town. Their carriage is silver from top to bot- 
tom.” 

“I know it; and it is exactly on that account 
that I desire to receive them in a becoming man- 
ner. You must be ready; your wife and your 
son also. I shall call you to-morrow morning 
very early. You will willingly . lend a hand to 
help me, won’t you ?” 

“ Certainly, certainly, sir ; a word from you is 
enough. I am always happy to be able to serve 
you in any way.” 

“Thank you for your kindness, John. We 
understand one another, my worthy fellow; and 
so farewell till to-morrow.” 

Monsieur De Ylierbeck entered the farm-house, 
gave some orders to the young man in relation to 
the things he had taken from the vehicle, and, 
passing through the screening grove, walked on 
to Grinselhof. 

As soon as he was out of 'the farmer’s sight his 
physiognomy assumed a more serene expression, 
and there was a smile on his lips as he cast his 
eyes around in search of some one in the solitude 
of the garden. At a turn of the path his eye fell 
v 


32 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


sudden ly on the sleeping girl. How beautiful she 
was in her calm repose ! The golden twilight 
covered her with its bright reflection and threw a 
rosy tint on every thing about her. Thick curls 
strayed in beautiful disorder over her cheeks, and 
snowy flowers, shaken from the catalpa’s branches 
by the evening breeze, had fallen around her in 
profusion. She still dreamed, and the happy 
smile yet rested on her features. De Ylierbeck 
gazed earnestly at his sleeping child, and raised 
his eyes to heaven as he said, tremulously, — 

4 4 Thanks, Almighty Father ! she is happy ! Let 
my martyrdom be prolonged; but may all my 
sufferings render thee compassionate for her!” 

After this short and ardent ejaculation he 
threw himself into a chair, leaned his arm care- 
fully on the table, and, resting his hand on it, re- 
mained still as a statue. For a long time he 
watched his sleeping child, while his face seemed 
to reflect each emotion that flitted across the deli- 
cate features of the maiden. Suddenly a modest 
blush overspread her brow, and her lips began to 
articulate. The old gentleman watched her nar- 
rowly, and, although she had not spoken in con- 
nected sentences, he caught one of those stray 
words which often betoken what is passing in a 
dreamer’s mind. 

“ 4 Gustave !’ She dreams of Gustave. May God 
be propitious to us ! Ah, yes, my child,” exclaimed 
her father, “ open thy heart to hope ! Dream, 
dream; for who knows what is in store for us? 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


33 


Yet, no ! — let us not destroy these happy moments 
by cold reality ! Sleep, sleep ! let thy soul enjoy 
the heavenly enchantment of love which it is 
awakening !” 

Monsieur De Vlierbeck continued for a while 
his quiet observation of the sleeper, and then, 
rising, passed behind her chair and imprinted a 
long kiss on her forehead. 

Still half-dreaming, the sleeper slowly opened 
her eyes ; and, the moment she perceived who had 
awakened her, she sprang into her father’s arms 
with a bound, and, hanging round his neck, over- 
whelmed him with questions and kisses. 

Vlierbeck gently disengaged himself from his 
daughter’s embrace, as he remarked, in a tone of 
raillery, — 

“It seems altogether unnecessary, Lenora, to 
inquire what new beauties you have discovered in 
Vondel’s ‘Lucifer.’ You have not had time, I 
take it for granted, to begin the comparison be- 
tween this masterpiece of our native tongue and 
Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ ?” 

“Ah! father,” murmured Lenora, “my mind is 
indeed strangely troubled. I do not know what 
is the matter with me ; I cannot even read with 
attention.’ 

“Come, Lenora, my child, don’t be sad. Sit 
down : I have something of importance to tell you. 
You do not know why I went to town to-day, do 
you ? It was because we are to have company to 
dinner to-morrow !” 


84 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


Lenora gazed at her father with an earnest and 
questioning look. 

“ It is Monsieur Denecker, ’ ’ continued he : — “ the 
wealthy merchant, you know, who sits near me at 
church and lives at the chateau of Echelpoel.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I remember him, father ; he always 
speaks to me so kindly, and never fails to help me 
from the carriage when we go to church.” 

“ But your eyes ask, I see, Lenora, whether he is 
coming alone. Another person will accompany 
him, my girl !” 

“Gustave!” exclaimed the maiden, involuntarily 
and blushing. 

u Exactly! Gustave will be here,” replied 
Monsieur De Ylierbeck. “ Don’t tremble on that 
account, Lenora; and don’t become frightened 
because your innocent heart may find itself open- 
ing to the dawn of new sensations. Between us, 
my child, there can be no secret that my love will 
not discover.” 

His daughter’s eyes looked inquiringly into his 
own, as if asking an explanation of the enigma. 
But all of a sudden, as if a ray had darted unex- 
pectedly into her soul, she threw her arms around 
the old man’s neck and hid her face in his bosom. 

“Oh, father! beloved father,” murmured she, 
“your kindness is unbounded !” 

For some moments the old gentleman did not 
put aside the affectionate caresses of his child ; but 
by degrees his expression became gloomy; tears 
started into his eyes, and he said, in broken tones, — 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


35 


“Lenora, whatever may happen to us in life, 
thou wilt always love thy father thus, wilt thou 
not?” 

“Always, always, father!’ 

“Lenora, my child,” continued he, with a sigh, 
“ thy tender affection is my only recompense and 
happiness here below : never deprive my soul of 
its consolation !” 

The sad tone in which these words were uttered 
touched the maiden’s heart so deeply that she took 
her father’s hands, without saying a syllable, and 
wept in silence with her head in his bosom. 

For a long time they remained thus motionless, 
absorbed by a feeling which was neither joy nor 
sorrow but seemed to acquire its power and mas- 
tery by the mingling of these opposite sentiments. 

Monsieur De Vlierbeck’s expression was the first 
to change. His features became severe as he bent 
his head downward reproachfully. In truth, the 
strange words that started the tears into his 
daughter’s eyes had excited the reflection in his own 
mind that another person was, perhaps, about to 
share his Lenora’s love and probably to separate 
him from her forever. He was ready for every 
sacrifice, were it even infinitely greater, provided 
it contributed to the happiness of his child ; yet 
the very idea of separation caused his heart to 
bleed at every pore. By degrees he stifled this 
selfish anxiety, and, striving to control himself, 
raised his daughter with a kiss. 

“ Come, Lenora,” said he, “be gay again ! Isn't 


36 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


it a happy thing that onr hearts can sometimes get 
into the shade after they have been too much in 
the sunshine? Let us go into the house. We 
have many arrangements to make in order to 
receive our guests becomingly.” 

Lenora obeyed her father in silence, and fol- 
lowed him slowly, while the tears still dropped 
from her beautiful eyes. 

Some hours afterward Monsieur De Ylierbeck 
might have been seen seated in the principal saloon 
of Grinselhof, near a little lamp, with his elbows 
on the table. The apartment was dark and dreary, 
for the feeble rushlight illuminated but a single 
spot and cast the distant and lofty ceiling into 
vague obscurity. The flickering flame threw long 
and sombre shadows over the wall, while a line of 
old portraits in the panels seemed to fix their stern 
and immovable eyes on the table. Amid the 
gloom nothing came out with distinctness but the 
calm and noble face of the poor old gentleman, 
who sat there, absorbed in his reflections, fixed 
as a statue. 

At length, rising from his chair and cautiously 
walking on tiptoe to the end of the room, he 
stopped and listened at the closed door. “She 
sleeps,” said he, in a low voice; and, raising his 
eyes to heaven, added, with a sigh, “may God 
protect her rest!” Then, returning to the table, 
he took the lamp, and, opening a large safe which 
was imbedded in the wall, he went down on his 
knees and drew forth some napkins and a table- 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


37 


cloth, which he unfolded carefully to see whether 
they were torn or stained. As he refolded the 
articles one after the other, a smile betokened that 
he was pleased with his examination. Rising from 
this task, he went back to the table, from the 
drawer of which he took a piece of buckskin and 
whiting. Mashing the latter with a knife-handle, 
he began to rub and polish several silver forks and 
spoons which were in a basket. The salt-cellars 
and other small articles of table-service, which 
were mostly of the same metal, were all subjected 
to a similar process, and soon glittered brightly in 
the feeble lamplight. 

While he was engaged in this strange work, the 
soul of the poor old man was busy with a thousand 
conflicting thoughts and recollections. He was 
constantly muttering to himself ; and many a tear 
escaped from his lids as he dreamed over the past 
and repeated the names of the loved and lost ! 

“Poor brother !” ejaculated he; “but one man 
alone in the world knows what I have done for 
thee, and yet that man accuses me of had faith and 
ingratitude ! And thou, poor brother, art wander- 
ing in the icy solitudes of America, a prey perhaps 
to sickness and suffering, while for months no 
kindly look is fixed upon thee in that wilderness 
where thou earnest thy miserable wages ! Son of 
a noble race ! thou hast become a slave to the 
stranger, and thy toil serves to amass the fortunes 
which others are to enjoy! My love for thee has 
made me suffer martyrdom ; hut, as God is my 
4 


38 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


judge, my affection has remained entire, — un- 
touched ! May thy soul, 0 brother, feel this aspi- 
ration of mine even in the isolation where thou 
art suffering; and may the consciousness of my 
love he a balm for thy misery!” 

The poor gentleman was absorbed for some time 
in painful meditation ; but after a while his dream 
seemed over, and he betook himself again to 
work. He placed all the silver utensils side by 
side on the table, and, after carefully counting and 
examining them, resumed his soliloquy: — 

“ Six forks ! eight spoons ! We shall be four at 
table : it will be necessary to be careful ; else it will 
easily be seen something is wanting. I think, 
however, it will do. I must give very precise 
instructions to John’s wife, for she is a clever 
woman, and knows what she is about !” 

As he uttered the last words he replaced the 
silver in the basket and locked it in the safe ; after 
which he took the lamp, and, leaving the saloon on 
tiptoe, descended through a little door into a large 
vaulted cellar. Here he hunted about for a con- 
siderable time amid stacks of empty bottles, and 
at last succeeded in finding what he was in search 
of ; but his face became extremely pale as he drew 
three bottles from the sand. 

“Good heavens! only three bottles /” exclaimed 
he; “three bottles of table- wine! and Monsieur 
Denecker is such a connoisseur of vintages ! What 
shall I do if they ask for more when these three 
bottles are empty? I have it! I do not drink, 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


39 


and Lenora drinks very little ; so there will be two 
bottles for Monsieur Denecker and one for his 
nephew ! But, even at the worst, what is the use 
of anxiety? Let luck settle it !” 

With this De Vlierbeck went into the corners 
of the cellar, where he gathered from the walls a 
quantity of cobwebs, which he wound artistically 
around the bottles and covered with dust and sand. 

On reaching the saloon he went to work with 
paste and paper to mend some rents in the tapestry 
on the wall ; and then, after passing nearly half 
an hour in brushing his clothes and disguising 
their threadbare spots with w T ater and ink, he came 
back to the table and made preparations for a task 
which was still more singular than any he had 
hitherto been engaged in. Taking from the drawer 
a silk thread, an awl, and a bit of wax, he put his 
boot on his knees and began to mend the rents in 
the leather with the skill of a cobbler! It will 
readily be supposed that this odd occupation stirred 
a variety of emotions in the heart of the poor 
gentleman ; violent twitches and spasms passed 
over his face ; his cheeks became red, then deadly 
pale ; till at last, yielding to a passionate impulse, 
he cut the silk, threw it on the table, and, with his 
hands stretched toward the portraits, cried out, 
with struggling passion, — 

“Yes! behold me, — behold me, — ye whose 
noble blood runs in my veins! You, brave cap- 
tain, who, fighting at the side of Egmont, at St. 
Quentin, gave your life for your country, — you, 


40 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


statesman and ambassador, who, after the battle 
of Pavia, rendered such eminent services to the 
Emperor Charles, — yon, benefactor of your race, 
who endowed so many hospitals and churches, 
— you, proud bishop, who, as priest and scholar, 
defended so bravely your faith and your God, — 
behold me, all of you, not only from that sense- 
less canvas, but from the bosom of God where 
you are at rest ! He whom you have seen at the 
wretched task of mending his boots, and who 
devotes his life to the concealment of his po- 
verty, — he is your descendant, your son ! If the 
gaze of his fellow-men tortures him, before you 
at least he is not ashamed of debasing toil ! 

0 glorious ancestry! you have fought the foes 
of your native land with sword and pen ; but I, — 

1 have to contend with unmerited shame and 
mockery, without a hope of ultimate triumph or 
glory; my weary soul sinks under its burden, 
and the world has nothing in store for me but 
scorn and contempt! And, yet, have I ever 
stained your noble escutcheon ? All that I have 
done is generous and honest in the sight of 
God; — nay, the very fountain-head of my wo 
is love and compassion! . Yes, yes! — fix your 
glittering eyes on me; contemplate me in the 
abyss of poverty where I am fallen ! From the 
bottom of that pit I lift my brow boldly toward 
you, and your silent glance does not force me to 
grovel in the earth with shame! Here, in the 
presence of your noble images, I am alone with 


THE POOR GENTLExMAN. 


41 


my soul, with my conscience ; — here, no mortifi- 
cation can touch the being who, as gentleman, 
Christian, brother, and father, has sacrificed him- 
self to duty!” 

His voice ceased; and for a few moments he 
stood still in the midnight silence, looking at the 
antique portraits as the last echoes died away in 
the lofty apartment, with his arms stretched to- 
ward the pictures as if invoking the beings they 
represented. 

“Poor, senseless creature,” continued he, after 
a while, clasping his hands and lifting them anew 
to heaven, “ thy soul seeks deliverance in dreams ! 
Yes ; it is, perhaps, a dream, an illusion ! Yet, 
thanks, thanks to the Almighty that allows even 
a dream to fortify me with courage and endu- 
rance ! Enough : reality once more stares me 
in the face ; and yet I defy the mocking spectre 
which points to ruin and misery !” 

“And then to-morrow, — to-morrow!” continued 
he; “wilt thou not tremble beneath the glance 
of those who seek the secret of thy life? Yes; 
study well thy part ; have ready thy mask ; go on 
bravely with thy cowardly farce ! And now be- 
gone ; thy nightly task is done; — beg, beg from 
sleep the oblivion of what thou art and of thy 
threatening future ! Sleep ! I tremble at the very 
thought of it! Father in heaven, have mercy 
on us!” 


4 * 


42 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER in. 

At daybreak next morning everybody was 
busy at Grinselhof. John’s wife and her serving- 
maid scoured the corridor and staircase ; the 
farmer cleaned his stable; his son weeded the 
grass from the garden- walks. Very early in the 
day Lenora set matters in order in the dining- 
room and arranged with artistic taste all the 
pretty things she could find on the mantel-piece 
and tables. There was a degree of life and acti- 
vity about Grinselhof that had not been seen in 
that solitude for many a year, and everybody 
went to work with alacrity, as if anxious to dispel 
the gloom that hung so long over the lonely dwell- 
ing. In the midst of the industrious crowd Mon- 
sieur DeVlierbeck might be seen moving about 
with words of encouragement and expressions 
of satisfaction ; nor did he manifest the slightest 
symptom of the anxiety that was secretly gnaw- 
ing his heart. A pleasant smile flattered his 
humble dependants, as he gave them to under- 
stand that their labors would be greatly honored 
by the approval of his expected guests. 

The farmer and his spouse had never seen De 
Ylierbeck so pleasant and so gay; and, as they 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


43 


sincerely loved their master, they were as much 
delighted by his joy as if they had been pre- 
paring for a village fair in which they were to 
take part. They never dreamed of pay for their 
generous toil, hut derived their most grateful re- 
compense from the pleasure they imparted to the 
hermit and his child. 

As soon as the principal preparations were 
completed, De Ylierheck called his daughter and 
gave the necessary instructions for the dinner. 
Lenora was to confine herself to drilling the 
farmer’s wife in serving the dishes with which 
she was not familiar. The old cooking-appa- 
ratus was lighted ; wood kindled and crackled in 
the chimney; coals glistened in the grate; and, 
high above the roof-tree, clouds of smoke be- 
tokened the good cheer that was to adorn the 
tables. Baskets of game were opened; stuffed 
poultry, savory pasties, and choice viands, were 
brought forth ; dishes of green peas, beans, and 
other vegetables, appeared ; and the women were 
speedily in a turmoil of stringing, shelling, cutting, 
washing, and stewing. 

Lenora herself did not shun her part in these 
humble duties, and amused her companions by 
the pleasant chat with which she whiled away the 
hours. The rustics, who had rarely enjoyed an 
opportunity of seeing her so closely or of enjoy- 
ing a familiar conversation with the beauty, 
were of course delighted with her gay and affable 
manners ; nor could they avoid expressing their 


44 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


pleasure when a few notes of a popular song 
happened to drop from Lenora’s lips. 

The servant-maid instantly rose, and whispered, 
loud enough to he heard by Lenora, — 

“ Oh, pray, do beg mademoiselle to sing a verse 
or two of that song ! I heard it at a distance the 
other day ; and it was so beautiful that, fool as 
I am, I blubbered like a baby for half an hour 
behind the rose-bushes. And yet I think it was 
rather her sweet voice than the words that made 
me cry.” 

“ Oh, yes ! dp sing it for us ; it would give us 
so much pleasure ! Your voice is like a nightin- 
gale’s ; and I remember too, that my poor mother 
— alas! she is long ago in heaven — used to sing 
me to sleep with that blessed song. Pray, sing it 
for us, mademoiselle. 

“ It’s very long,” said Lenora, smiling. 

“But if you only sing a verse or two; it is a 
holiday with us, you know, mademoiselle V ’ 

“Well,” returned Lenora, musingly, “if it will 
make you happy why should I refuse ? Listen : — 

“Beside a deep and rapid stream 
A lonely maiden sat ; 

With sighs her snowy bosom heaved, 

And tears bedewed the ground ! 

“A noble walked along the bank 
And saw her bitter grief ; 

And, as her tears overflowed his heart, 

It melted for the maid ! 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


45 


Speak, maiden, speak!’ the wanderer cried! 

‘ Why moan you here alone ?’ 

‘Ah, sir, an orphan-child am I, 

Whom God alone can save ! 

“ ‘Ah! seest thou not yon grassy mound 
There sleeps my mother dear. 

Behold yon rock, above the flood ; 

There fell my father down ! 

“ The whirling torrent bore him on ; 

He struggled long in vain ; 

My brother leaped to help his sire, 

And both together sank ! 

“ ‘And now I fly our silent hut, 

Where desolation dwells, 

To mourn upon this dreary bank, 

And watch the wave and grave !’ 

‘No longer grieve,’ the stranger said, 

‘ Thy heart shall ache no more ; 

A father and a brother too 
To thee, poor lonely girl, I’ll be !’ 

“ He took her hand ; he led her off ; 

In garments rich he clad the maid ; 

Before the altar promised love, 

And blessed her life in happy home!”* 

As Lenora was about beginning the last verse 
of her song De Vlierbeck appeared on the sill of 
the kitchen door, and the peasants instantly rose 


* This simple and popular ballad, known in the Campine as 
The Orphan , is sung by all classes to an air which is full of 
touching melody. 


46 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


in alarm at the freedom with which they were sit- 
ting in the presence of their young mistress, lis- 
tening to her songs; but the poor gentleman at 
once understood the meaning of her action, and 
with a gesture of approval signaled them to be 
quiet. As the last words died on his ear, — “ I’m 
glad to see you amusing yourselves,” said he; 
“ but, now that the song is ended, I want your 
services in another quarter, my good woman.” 

Followed by Bess, the farmer’s wife, he ascended 
to the dining-room, where the table-cloth was al- 
ready laid and every thing in order for the recep- 
tion of the dishes. Bessy’s son was already there 
in livery, with a napkin over his arm; and Be 
Vlierbeck immediately began to assign them their 
several tasks during the service of dinner, and to 
repeat and drill them in their tasks till he was per- 
fectly satisfied with their performances. 

The hour for dinner was at length near at hand. 
Every thing was ready in the kitchen, and all were 
at their posts. Lenora, in full dress and with a 
palpitating heart, lingered in her chamber ; while 
her father, with a book which he appeared to be 
reading, sat beneath the catalpa in the garden. 

It was about two o’clock when a splendid 
equipage, drawn by a pair of superb English 
horses, entered the demesne of Grinselhof and 
drew up in front of the portal. Be Vlierbeck 
welcomed his guests courteously, and Monsieur 
Benecker gave orders to the coachman to return 
precisely at five o’clock, as matters of importance 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


47 


required his presence in Antwerp before night- 
fall. 

Denecker was a large, stout person, dressed 
rather extravagantly, but in a style of studied 
carelessness which he evidently regarded as stylish. 
The expression of his face, it must be owned, was 
rather vulgar, and exhibited a compound of cun- 
ning and good-nature tempered by indifference. 
But Gustave, his nephew, belonged to an entirely 
different class of persons. His tall figure was 
graceful and easy, his countenance frank and 
manly, and his whole demeanor denoted refined 
manners and high cultivation. Blue eyes and 
blonde hair imparted a poetic air to his head ; but 
an energetic glance and lofty brow took from 
it every expression of sentimental weakness. 

Ho sooner had De Ylierbeck presented his 
guests to Lenora, in the saloon, than Denecker 
broke forth in exclamations of undisguised ad- 
miration: — 

“ How charming, how beautiful she is ! and yet 
so hidden in this Grinselhof of yours, Monsieur 
de Ylierbeck ! What a shame, sir ! what a 
shame !” 

In the mean time Gustave and Lenora had 
moved off to a short distance from the old gentle- 
men, and were busy in a chat of their own, in- 
audible to the rest but evidently interesting to 
themselves, for they were observed not only to blush 
but tremble. Denecker, in fact, could not help 
observing the young people’s emotion ; and, as De 
w 


48 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


Vlierbeck passed down the saloon with him, re- 
marked that the young beauty was evidently turn- 
ing his nephew’s head. “He talks of her con- 
stantly,” said he, “and I don’t know what may 
come of it ; but I give you fair warning, Monsieur 
De Vlierbeck, if you are unwilling to see some- 
thing more than compliments between these chil- 
dren you had better take time by the forelock. It 
will soon be too late to reason with them ; for my 
nephew, with all his calm gentleness, is not the 
man to retreat before difficulties.” 

De Vlierbeck was secretly delighted by the 
merchant’s counsels, but was too wise to display 
anxiety. 

“You are joking, Monsieur Denecker,” said he: 
“I can’t think there is a particle of danger. They 
are both young, and there is nothing surprising 
in mutual attraction under such circumstances. 
There can hardly be any thing serious in their 
intercourse. But, come,” added he, aloud ; “ I per- 
ceive that dinner is served; and so let us adjourn 
to the table !” Gustave led in the blushing girl, 
and the elders followed admiringly in their rear, 
while the merchant shook his finger coquettishly 
at his gallant nephew. De Vlierbeck placed Mon- 
sieur Denecker opposite him at table, and made 
Gustave the vis-ti-vis of Lenora. 

Bess brought in the dishes, while her son waited 
on the guests. The viands were prepared with 
considerable skill, and Denecker took frequent 
occasion to express his satisfaction with their 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


49 


exquisite flavor. In truth, he was rather surprised 
at the sumptuousness of the repast; for he had 
been prepared to expect lenten fare in a household 
which was renowned throughout the neighbor- 
hood for its austere economy. 

In a short time the conversation became general ; 
and Lenora astonished Monsieur Denecker by the 
extent of her information and the admirable style 
in which she expressed herself and did the honors 
of the table. But, notwithstanding her ease and 
freedom while conversing with the uncle, an ob- 
server could not help detecting that she was shy, 
if not absolutely embarrassed, when obliged to 
reply to some casual remark of the nephew. Nor 
was Gustave more at ease than the maiden. In 
fact, they were both h^ppy at heart because fate 
had thrown them together ; but they would have 
been quite willing to enjoy that delicious silence 
which in love is often more eloquent than in lan- 
guage. 

In the mean while De Ylierbeck rattled away, 
with the ease of a man of the world, on all sub- 
jects that might interest his guests ; yet he lis- 
tened, with equal good manners, to Denecker’s 
conversation, and now and then adroitly threw in 
such hints as allowed him to speak learnedly upon 
commercial matters. The merchant was gratified 
by his deferential civility, and was drawn toward 
his entertainer by a stronger bond than that of 
mere social politeness. 

Indeed, all went on swimmingly, and all were 
5 


50 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


pleased with themselves. De Vlierback was espe- 
cially gratified to find that Bess and her boy per- 
formed their tasks so well, and that the spoons 
and plates were so quickly washed and brought 
hack that it was impossible to notice the deficiency 
of their number. One thing alone began to worry 
him. He saw with pain that while Denecker was 
busy with his food and chat he was equally busy 
with the wine, and that glass after glass dis- 
appeared with more rapidity than was agreeable to 
his supply. Besides this, Gustave, who was pro- 
bably anxious for some excuse to have a word 
with Lenora upon any pretext, constantly asked 
permission to fill her glass ; so that, very soon after 
the soup and meat had been disposed of, the first 
bottle was entirely emptied. 

Civility required that it should be immediately 
replaced; and, as De Ylierbeck observed that the 
more Monsieur Denecker talked the more he 
drank, he thought he might try whether less con- 
versation would not moderate the merchant’s thirst. 
But, alas! he was disappointed; for at that mo- 
ment Denecker introduced the topic of wine, and, 
lauding the generous juice of the grape, expressed 
surprise at the extraordinary sobriety of his host. 
With this he redoubled his attack on the bottle, 
and was in some degree, though less vigorously, 
seconded by Gustave. De Vlierbeck’s agony be- 
came more and more intense as he saw the rosy fluid 
sink and sink in the second bottle, until at length 
the last drop was drained into the merchant’s glass. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


51 


“Yes,” said Denecker, “ your wine is both old 
and good ; but I have always found, in tasting 
liquors, that if we don’t change them we lose their 
flavor. I take it for granted that you have a first- 
rate cellar, if I may judge by your first samples; 
so I propose that we now try a bottle of your Chti- 
teau-margaux ; and, if we have time, we can finish 
with a bottle of hochheimer. I never drink cham- 
pagne : it is a bad liquor for wine-drinkers.” 

As the last words fell from Denecker, poor De 
Ylierbeck grew deadly pale, as his frightened 
spirit went rummaging through the cracks and 
crannies of his brain for some inspiration or expe- 
dient which might extricate him from his deep 
perplexity. 

“ Chateau-mar gaux?” inquired he, with a calm 
smile. “ Certainly, sir, if you wish it.” And 
then, turning to the lackey, — “John,” said he, 
“bring a bottle of Chateau-mar gaux: you will find 
it in the third cellar on the left-hand side.” 

But the rustic stared at his master with gaping 
mouth, as if he had been addressed in one of the 
dead languages. Seeing the predicament, and 
mastering it rapidly, — 

“Excuse me,” said De Ylierbeck, rising; “he 
would not find it, I fear. I will be back in a 
moment.” 

Rushing into the kitchen, he seized the third 
and last bottle and descended to the cellar, where 
he stopped to draw breath and compose himself. 

“ Chateau-mar gaux! hochheimer! champagne /” ex- 


52 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


claimed poor De Vlierbeck, “and not another 
drop of wine in my house but what is in this last 
bottle of claret! What shall I do? what can I 
do?” continued he, as he held the cobwebbed 
bottle in one hand and stroked his chin with the 
other. “ But no matter : there’s no time for reflec- 
tion ; the die is cast, and may God help me in my 
need !” 

He ascended the stair, entered the dining-room 
with the corkscrew in the last cork, and found 
that during his absence Lenora had ordered fresh 
glasses on the table. 

“This wine,” said De Vlierbeck, holding the 
bottle knowingly to the light, “ is at least twenty 
years old, Monsieur Denecker, and I sincerely 
hope it will please your palate.” So saying, he 
filled the glasses of uncle and nephew, and gazed 
anxiously in their faces for the verdict. 

Denecker tasted the -wine, drop by drop, like an 
epicure, and, shaking his head disappointedly, — 

“There’s a mistake, doubtless,” said he; “for 
it’s the identical wine we had before.” 

De Vlierbeck feigned surprise admirably, tasted 
the wine in turn, and replied, — 

“ I believe you are right, and that I have made a 
mistake ; yet, as the bottle is opened and not bad, 
suppose we drink it before I make another de- 
scent to the cellar? There’s abundance of time.” 

“I’ve no objection,” answered the merchant, 
“ provided you help us, so as to get through it the 
quicker.” And so the column in the third and 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


53 


last bottle diminished more rapidly than its pre- 
decessors, till two or three glasses alone remained 
at the bottom to crown the festival. 

Poor De Ylierbeck could no longer conceal his 
agitation. He tried to keep his eyes off the fatal 
bottle ; but a sort of fascination drew him back to 
it, and each time with increased anxiety. That 
dreadful word ‘ Chateau-mar gaux' rang in his ears. 
His face blushed and grew pale, and a cold, 
clammy sweat stood in big beads on his forehead. 
Yet he felt that he had not entirely exhausted his 
resources, and resolved to fight the battle of humi- 
liation to the end. He wiped his brow and cheeks, 
coughed, and turned aside as if about to sneeze. 
By dint of these manoeuvres he continued to conceal 
his nervousness till Deneeker grasped the bottle 
to pour out its last drop. As he clasped the neck, 
a chill seized the hysterical frame of the poor 
gentleman, a deadly paleness overspread his fea- 
tures, and his head fell with a groan against the 
tall back of the chair. Was it in truth a fainting- 
fit, or did the sufferer take advantage of his emo- 
tion to play a part and escape the embarrassment 
of his situation ? 

In a moment the whole party were on their feet, 
while Lenora screamed and ran to her father. 

“It’s nothing,” said De Ylierbeck, striving, 
after a minute or two, to rally himself. “I am 
faint ; the confined air of this room overcame me. 
Let me walk a while in the garden and I will soon 
be better.” 

5 * 


54 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


As he said this he staggered to his feet, and, 
supported by Lenora and Gustave, moved toward 
the garden, followed by Denecker with an ex- 
pression of the deepest concern. A short rest in 
the open air beneath the shade of a noble chest- 
nut-tree quickly restored a faint color to De V lier- 
beck’s cheek and enabled him to tranquillize their 
anxiety about his sudden attack. 

“I will rest here a while out of doors,” said he, 
“ for fear the fit might return ; and perhaps a slow 
walk in the garden might hasten my recovery.” 

“It will do both of us good,” answered De- 
necker; “and, besides, as I have to quit you at 
five o’clock, I don’t want to leave Grinselhof with- 
out seeing its garden. Let us take a turn through 
your walks, and afterward we shall have time 
enough to finish another bottle.” 

As he said this he passed Lenora’s arm within 
his own, and, casting a coquettish glance at Gus- 
tave, began their promenade. By degrees De 
Vlierbeck rallied sufficiently to take part in the 
chat; and gardening, agriculture, sporting, and 
a hundred different country topics, were fully dis- 
cussed. Lenora recovered her spirits and charmed 
their commercial guest by the mingled charms of 
her intellectual cleverness and innocent gayety. 
Wild as a deer, she dared him to run a race with 
her, and danced along the paths by his side full 
of mirth and sportiveness. In truth, Denecker 
was altogether captivated by the ingenuous girl, 
and, as he looked on her radiant face, could not 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


55 


help thinking that the future had some happy 
days in store for his gallant nephew. After a 
while Lenora strayed off in advance with Gus- 
tave, while the two elders lingered lazily along 
the path. Gustave was charmed with the flowers, 
the plants, the gold-fish, which Lenora pointed 
out to him ; nor was he at all desirous to shorten 
their delicious flirtation by returning to the table. 
This chimed precisely with the anxiety of De 
Vlierbeck, who employed every stratagem he 
could conceive to keep his guest in the open air. 
He told stories, repeated jokes, appealed to De- 
necker’s commercial knowledge, and even quizzed 
him a little when he found their conversation be- 
ginning to flag. In fact, he was rejoicing that 
five o’clock, and, of course, the carriage, were 
rapidly approaching, when Denecker suddenly 
recalled his nephew from a distant quarter of the 
garden where he was strolling with Lenora. 

“ Come, Gustave ; come,” said he ; “if you wish 
to drink a parting glass with us let us get in, for 
the coach will he here in a moment.” 

De Vlierbeck instantly became pale as a sheet, 
and, trembling from head to foot, stared silently 
at Denecker, who could no longer restrain his 
surprise at these exhibitions. 

“Are you ill, sir?” said he. 

“ My stomach is a singular one, Monsieur De- 
necker, and I suffer spasms if you even mention 
wine! It is a strange malady; but Oh, I 


56 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


hear your coach, Monsieur Denecker ; and there 
it is, drawing up, I see, at the gateway.” 

Of course Denecker spoke no more of wine ; 
but, as he could not help noticing the alacrity with 
which De Vlierbeck hailed the prospect of his 
departure, he would have been deeply mortified, 
if not offended, had not the previous hospitality 
of his host satisfied him of their welcome. He 
thought, perhaps, that he ought to attribute his 
entertainer’s conduct to some singular nervous 
disease which he masked under an antipathy for 
wine ; and accordingly he took leave with a warm 
and friendly farewell. 

“ I have passed a delightful afternoon with you, 
Monsieur De Vlierbeck,” said he. “ We have found 
ourselves, I am sure, extremely happy in your 
and your daughter’s charming society. It is a 
pleasure added to my life to have made your ac- 
quaintance ; and I hope that further intimacy 
may assure me your friendship. In the mean 
while, let me thank you from the bottom of my 
heart for your kind reception.” 

As he finished the sentence, Lenora and Gus- 
tave joined them. 

“My nephew,” continued Denecker, “will con- 
fess, as I have done, that he has spent few hap- 
pier hours than those that are just gone. I hope, 
Monsieur de Vlierbeck, that you and your charm- 
ing daughter will return our visit and dine with 
us. Yet I shall have to ask your pardon for 
postponing the pleasure it will afford us till I re- 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


57 


turn from Frankfort, where I am summoned, the 
day after to-morrow, on urgent business. It is 
probable I may be detained away a couple of 
months ; but if my nephew should be allowed to 
visit you in my absence let me hope he will be 
welcome.” 

De Vlierbeck reiterated his professions of de- 
light at the new acquaintance ; Lenora was silent; 
and Denecker moved off toward the coach. 

“ But the parting glass, uncle !” exclaimed 
Gustave. “Let us go in for a moment and 
drink it.” 

“Ho, no,” said Denecker, interrupting him 
tartly. “ I believe we would never get hence at 
all if we listened to you. It is time to be off, and 
I can delay no longer. Adieu !” 

Gustave and Lenora exchanged a long and 
anxious look, full of regret at separation and of 
hope for speedy reunion. In a moment the uncle 
and nephew were in the vehicle and the spirited 
horses in motion; but, as long as the group 
was in sight at the gate, a couple of white-gloved 
hands might have been seen waving farewells 
from the coach-window. 


58 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A few days after the departure of his uncle, 
Gustave paid a visit to Grinselhof. He was re- 
ceived by Monsieur De Ylierbeck and his daughter 
with their usual kindness, passed the greater part 
of an afternoon with them, and went home at 
nightfall to the chateau of Echelpoel full of de- 
lightful recollections and hopes. Either from a 
fear of disturbing the reserved habits of the old 
gentleman, or from a sense of politeness, Gustave 
did not at first repeat his visits too frequently ; but 
after a couple of weeks the extreme cordiality of 
Ylierbeck dispelled all his scruples. The ardent 
youth no longer resisted an impulse that drew him 
toward the bewitching girl, nor did he allow a 
single day to roll by without passing the afternoon 
at Grinselhof. The happy hours flew rapidly on 
the wings of love. He strolled with Lenora 
through the shady walks of the old garden, 
listened to her father’s observations on science 
and art, drank in the delicious notes of his loved 
one’s voice as it was breathed forth in song, or, 
seated beneath the flowery and spreading catalpa, 
dreamed the dream of happiness that was in store 
for him with her who was probably soon to become 
his betrothed. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


59 


If the noble and beautiful face of the maiden 
bad won bis eye and enlisted bis feelings the mo- 
ment be first beheld her in the village churchyard, 
now , that be bad become familiar with her charac- 
ter, his love grew so ardently absorbing that the 
world seemed sad and dead if she were not present 
to shed the light of her joyous spirit upon every 
thing around him. Neither religion nor poetry 
could conjure up an angel more fascinating than 
his beloved. Indeed, though God had endowed 
her person with all those feminine graces that 
adorned the first woman in Paradise, he had also 
lavished on her a heart whose crystalline purity 
was never clouded, and -whose generosity burst 
forth with every emotion like a limpid spring. 

But in all his interviews, Gustave had never yet 
been alone with Lenora. When he visited her she 
never left the apartment where she commonly sat 
with her father, unless the old gentleman expressed 
a wish that they should unite in a walk through 
the garden; and, of course, he had never enjoyed 
an opportunity to breathe the love that was rising 
to his lips. Still, he felt that it was altogether 
useless to express by words what was passing in 
their hearts; for the kindness, the respect, the 
affection, that shone in everybody’s eyes, beto- 
kened the feeling which united them in a mingled 
sentiment of attachment and hope. 

Though Gustave entertained profound venera- 
tion for Lenora’s father and really loved him as a 
son, there was something which at times came like 


60 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


a cloud betwixt himself and the old gentleman. 
What he heard outside of Grinselhof of De Vlier- 
beck’s extraordinary avarice had been fully real- 
ized since he became intimate at the house. ISo 
one ever offered him a glass of wine or beer ; he 
never received an invitation to dinner or supper ; 
and he frequently observed the trouble that was 
taken by the master of the house to disguise his 
inhospitable economy. 

Avarice is a passion which excites no other 
emotion than that of aversion or contempt, because 
it is natural to believe that when so degrading a 
vice takes possession of one’s soul it destroys 
every spark of generosity and fills it with mean- 
ness. Accordingly, Gustave had a long and fear- 
ful conflict with himself in order to subdue this 
instinctive feeling and to convince his judgment 
that De Vlierbeck’s conduct was only a caprice 
which did not detract from the native dignity of 
his character. And yet, had the young man 
known the truth, he would have seen that a pang 
was hidden beneath every smile that flitted over 
the old man’s face, and that the nervous shudders 
which at times shook his frame were the results 
of a suppressed agony that almost destroyed him. 
As he gazed on the happy face of Lenora and 
steeped his soul in the intoxication of her love, he 
never dreamed that her father’s life was a pro- 
longed punishment; that, day and night, a terrible 
future opened its vista before him ; and that each 
moment of his existence brought him nearer and 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


61 


nearer to a dreadful catastrophe. He had not 
heard the inexorable sentence of the notary: — 
44 Four months more and your bond expires, when 
all you possess in this world will be sold by the 
officers of justice to satisfy your creditors !” 

Two of those fatal months had already ex- 
pired ! 

If Monsieur De Vlierbeck appeared to encourage 
the young man’s love, it was not alone in conse- 
quence of his sympathy with his feelings. No: 
the denouement of his painful trial was to be deve- 
loped within a defined period ; and, if it proved 
inauspicious, there was nothing hut dishonor and 
moral death for himself and child ! Destiny was 
about to decide forever whether he was to come 
out victorious from this ten years’ conflict with 
poverty, or whether he was to fall into the abyss 
of public contempt ! These were the feelings that 
induced him to conceal his true position more 
carefully than ever, and, while he watched over 
the lovers like a guardian spirit, made him do no- 
thing to check the rapid progress of their passion. 

As the time of his uncle’s return approached, 
the two months seemed to Gustave to have flown 
by like a pleasant dreajn; and, although he felt 
sure that his relative would not oppose the union, 
he foresaw that he would not be allowed hereafter 
to spend so much of his time away from business. 
Indeed, the very idea that he might be obliged to 
pass considerable periods without seeing Lenora 
6 


62 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


made him look for his uncle’s return with any 
thing hut delight. 

One day he contrived to whisper his fears and 
anticipations to LenorR, and, for the first time since 
their acquaintance, saw tears gathering in her 
eyes. The girl’s emotion touched his heart so 
sensibly that he ventured timidly to take her hand, 
and held it in his for a long time without uttering 
a word. De Ylierheck, who had overheard the 
remark, tried to comfort him, but his words did 
not seem to produce the desired effect ; and, after 
a short time, Gustave rose abruptly and took leave, 
though his usual time of departure had not yet 
arrived. Lenora read in his expression that some 
sudden revolution had occurred in her lover’s 
mind, for his eyes glistened with extraordinary 
animation. She strove eagerly to retain him by 
her side ; but he resisted her appeal pleasantly, and 
declared that nothing should unveil his secret till 
the following day, when he would return to Grin- 
selhof. De Ylierbeck, however, was more familiar 
with the world than his daughter ; and, imagining 
that he had penetrated the mystery of Gustave’s 
conduct, many a pleasant dream hovered that 
night around his pillow. 

As the usual hour of Gustave’s visit approached 
next day, De Ylierbeck’s heart beat high with 
hope ; and when the visitor appeared, clad with 
unusual neatness and care, the old gentleman 
welcomed him with more than ordinary warmth. 
After the compliments of the day had been paid 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


63 


to bis ladylove, Gustave expressed a desire for a 
few moments’ conversation with her father, who 
led him into an adjoining cabinet and seated him- 
self by his side. 

“ What is it you wish of me, my young friend?” 
said he, kindly. 

Gustave was silent for a moment, as if endeavor- 
ing to rally his ideas, and then spoke out in a 
manly way: — 

“lam about, my dear sir, to speak to you in 
regard to a matter that concerns my happiness ; 
and, no matter what may be your decision, I am 
sure, from your kindness upon all occasions, that 
you will pardon my boldness. I can hardly ima- 
gine that the feeling- — the irresistible feeling — I 
have entertained for Lenora from the first moment 
I saw her, has escaped your penetrating eye. I 
ought probably to have asked your consent long 
ago, before she obtained so complete a dominion 
over my heart ; but I have always secretly encou- 
raged the belief that you read my soul and were 
not displeased with my motives.” 

Gustave was silent, awaiting the hoped-for 
words of encouragement; but De Ylierbeck only 
looked at him with a gentle smile, and gave no 
other indication of his pleasure. A motion of the 
hand, as if he wished the lover to go on with his 
conversation, was the only sign he made in reply. 

Gustave’s resolution began to ebb at this dis- 
couraging by-play; but, summoning all his energy 

for another attack, he continued : — 

x 


64 


THE POOH GENTLEMAN. 


“Yes, sir, I have loved Lenora from my first 
sight of her ; but what was then a spark is now a 
flame. Don’t think it is her loveliness alone that 
bewitched me. She might indeed enchant the 
most insensible of mankind ; hut I found a far 
more glorious treasure in the angelic heart of your 
daughter. Her virtue, the immaculate purity of 
her soul, her gentle and magnanimous sentiments, 
— in a word, the prodigal gifts of mind and body 
which God has lavished on her, — have increased my 
admiration to love, my love to absolute idolatry ! 
How dare I conceal my emotion from you any 
longer ? I cannot live without Lenora ; the very 
thought of even a short temporary separation from 
her overwhelms me with despair. I long to he 
with her every day, every hour ; I long to hear her 
voice and read my happiness in her eloquent eyes ! 
I know not what may be your decision ; hut, believe 
me, if it shall be adverse to my hopes, I shall not 
long survive the blow. If your - decree separate 
me from my beloved Lenora, life will no longer 
have a charm for me !” 

Gustave uttered his romantic rhapsody — the 
rhapsody of most lovers — with that genuine emo- 
tion which bespoke his sincerity, and touched the 
heart of De Vlierbeck so deeply that he grasped 
his hand and implored him to be calm. 

“Don’t tremble so, my young friend,” said the 
old gentleman. “I know very well that you love 
Lenora, and that she is not insensible to your 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


65 


affection for her. But what have you to propose 
tome?” 

Gustave replied, dejectedly, — “If I still doubt 
your approval, after all the marks of esteem you 
have given me, it is because I fear you do not con- 
sider me worthy the happiness I have sought. I 
have no ancestral tree whose roots are buried in 
the past ; the good deeds of my forefathers do not 
shine in history ; the blood that runs in my veins 
comes from a common stock.” 

“Do you think,” said DeVlierbeck, interrupt- 
ing him, “ that I was ignorant of all this from the 
first day of our acquaintance? Ho, Gustave; no 
matter what your lineage may be, your own heart 
is generous and noble ; and, had it not been so, I 
would never have esteemed and treated you as my 
son.” 

“And so,” exclaimed Gustave, catching at the 
last words with a hurst of joyous impatience, 
“ you don’t refuse me Lenora’s hand ? — you will 
interpose no objection, provided my uncle gives 
his consent?” 

“ Ho,” replied De Ylierbeck ; “ I shall not refuse 
it* to you. On the contrary, it will give me un- 
bounded happiness to intrust the fate of my only 
child to your keeping. And yet there is an ob- 
stacle of which you have no idea.” 

“An obstacle!” exclaimed Gustave, growing 
pale ; — “ an obstacle between Lenora and me ?” 

“Be silent a moment,” said DeVlierbeck, “and 
listen to the explanation I shall give you. You 
6 * 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


think, Gustave, I suppose, that Grinselhof and all 
its dependencies belong to us ? It is not so : we 
are penniless. ¥e are poorer far than the pea- 
sant who rents our farming-land and lives yonder 
at the gate !” 

Gustave looked douhtingly at De Vlierbeck, 
with so incredulous a smile that the poor gentle- 
man blushed, and trembled like an aspen. 

“ I see you do not believe me,” continued he; 
“I see it in your smile and look. Like the 
rest of them, you think me a miser, hiding my 
wealth and starving my child and myself to amass 
riches, — a wretch who sacrifices every thing for 
money, — a vagabond whom all ought to fear and 
despise !” 

“Oh, pardon me, pardon me, sir!” interrupted 
Gustave, moved by the excitement of the old man. 
“ I think nothing of the kind ! My veneration for 
you is unbounded !” 

“ Hay, don’t be frightened at my words, young 
man,” continued De Vlierbeck, in a calmer tone. 
“ I make no accusations against you, Gustave. I 
only saw in your incredulous smile that I had suc- 
ceeded in masking my poverty even from yoji, 
and in making you suppose that my economy was 
avarice. But it is needless for me to give you any 
further explanation just now. Let it suffice you 
to know that what I say is strictly, honestly true. 
I possess nothing, — nothing !” 

“And now,” added he, after a moment’s silence 
on both sides, “ let me give you a piece of advice. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


67 


Go home to-day without seeing Lenora ; examine 
your soul calmly, and see whether there are no 
secret emotions that may make you change your 
present views ; let a night pass, and if, to-morrow, 
Lenora, poor as you now know her to be, is still dear 
to you, — if you still think you can he happy with 
her and can make her happy, — seek your uncle 
and ask his consent. Here is my hand: if the 
day shall ever come when I can offer it as a 
father’s, it will he the happiest of my life !” 

Although the revelation made by Monsieur He 
Vlierbeck was astonishing to Gustave, the solemn 
tone in which he announced it convinced the 
lover of its truth. He was silent for a moment ; 
hut soon a spark of enthusiasm began to, glisten 
in his eye and light up his face, as he exclaimed, — • 

“ How can you ask me if I shall continue to 
love Lenora now that I know her to he poor? It 
will he happiness enough for me to receive her as 
a wife, to be hound to her by the eternal bonds 
of love, to he forever within her reach, and to 
receive my happiness from her look and voice ! 
What delight it will he for me to protect her and 
know that I have the privilege of working for 
her ! Palace or hovel ; riches or poverty, all are 
equally indifferent to me, provided her presence 
animates the spot! A night’s reflection, Mon- 
sieur De Vlierbeck, cannot change my resolution. 
Grant me Lenora’s hand, and I will thank you 
on my knees for the priceless gift !” 

“And suppose I do,” replied the old gentle- 


68 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


man; “generosity and constancy are natural to 
the ardent character of youth : — hut your uncle?” 

“My uncle !” murmured Gustave, with evident 
grief ; “ that is true ; I need his consent. All I 
possess or ever shall possess in the world de- 
pends on his affection for me. I am the orphan 
son of his brother. He adopted me as his child and 
has overwhelmed me with kindness. lie has the 
right to decide my lot in life, and I must obey him.” 

“And do you think that he, a merchant, who 
probably places a very high value on money, 
because experience has taught him its value, 
will say, like you, ‘Palace or hovel, poverty or 
wealth, it makes no difference’ ?” 

“Alas! I know not, Monsieur De Vlierbeck,” 
said Gustave, droopingly. “But my uncle is so 
good to me — so extraordinarily good — that I may 
rightly hope for his consent. He will return to- 
morrow. When I embrace him I will declare 
all my wishes. I will say my comfort, my hap- 
piness, my life, depend on his consent. I know 
that he loves Lenora sincerely ; for, before his de- 
parture, he even seemed to encourage my preten- 
sions to her hand. Your disclosures will un- 
doubtedly surprise him ; but my prayers will con- 
quer: believe it!” 

Monsieur De Vlierbeck rose, to put an end to 
the conversation. 

“Well, ask your uncle’s .consent,” said he; 
“and, if your hopes are realized, let him come 
here and consult about the marriage. Whatever 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


69 


may be the issue of this, affair, Gustave, you at 
least have always behaved toward us with the 
delicacy of a generous youth. My esteem and 
friendship shall always be yours. Go now’; quit 
Grinselhof this time without seeing Lenora, for 
yon ought not to meet her until this affair is 
settled. I will tell her myself whatever I think 
proper for her to know.” 

Half pleased, half sad, — his heart divided be- 
tween joy and anxiety, — Gustave bade farewell to 
Lenora’s father and returned to Echelpoel. 


CHAPTER V. 

On the afternoon of the following day Monsieur 
De Ylierbeck was seated in his parlor, his head 
resting on his hand. He seemed plunged in pro- 
found thought, for his eyes were fixed on vacancy 
and his face exhibited by turns contentment and 
hope, inquietude and anxiety. 

Occasionally Lenora came into the apartment, 
and, seeming unusually restless, w’andered about 
from spot to spot, arranging and rearranging the 
little fancy articles upon the tables, looking out of 
the window into the garden, and at last running 
down-stairs suddenly as if she were pursued. Ho 
one who saw her could doubt that she was ner- 


70 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


vously anxious about something ; yet her expres- 
sion was one of joy and hope. Had she been able 
to penetrate her father’s mind and behold the 
various emotions that excited it, she would not 
perhaps have been so gay and blithesome ; but 
poor De Ylierbeck restrained himself with his 
habitual care in her presence, and smiled at her 
impatience as if he too were confident of ap- 
proaching happiness. 

At length, tired of running about, Lenora seated 
herself by her father and fixed her clear and ques- 
tioning gaze on his face. 

“Don’t be so excited, my good child,” said he. 
“We shall know nothing to-day ; but we may, per- 
haps, to-morrow. Moderate your joy, my daugh- 
ter; if it please Heaven to decide against your 
hope in this matter your grief will be more easily 
conquered.” 

“Oh, no, father!” stammered Lenora; “God 
will grant my prayer; I feel it in my heart. Don’t 
be astonished, father, that I am full of joy, for I 
think I see Gustave speaking to his uncle. I hear 
what he says, and Monsieur Denecker’s replies; 
I see him embrace Gustave and give his consent ! 
WLo can doubt, father, that I ought to hope, when 
I know that Monsieur Denecker loved me and was 
always kind ?” 

“Would you be very happy, Lenora,” asked De 
Ylierbeck, with a smile, “if Gustave w^ere be- 
trothed to you ?” 

“Never to leave him!” cried Lenora, — “to love 


THE TOOK GENTLEMAN. 


71 


him, — to be the happiness of his life, his consola- 
tion, his joy, — to enliven the solitude of Grinsel- 
hof by our love ! — ah ! that, father, would be de- 
light indeed ; for then there would be two of us 
to contribute to the pleasures of your life ! Gus- 
tave would have more skill than I to chase away 
the grief that sometimes clouds your brow; you 
could walk, talk, or hunt with him; he would 
venerate and love you as a son and watch you 
with the tenderest care; his only thought on earth 
would be to make you happy, because he knows 
that your happiness is mine; and I — I, father, will 
recompense him foriiis devotion by the gratitude 
of my heart, and love. Oh, yes, dear father! 
we shall live together in a paradise of content- 
ment !” 

“ Ingenuous girl !” exclaimed De Vlierbeck, with 
a sigh ; “ may the Lord hear your prayer ! But the 
world, my child, is governed by laws and customs 
of which you are altogether ignorant. A wife 
must follow her husband wherever he goes. If 
Gustave shall select another residence you must 
follow him and console yourself gradually at the 
separation from your father. Under other circum- 
stances, parting might be painful ; but solitude will 
not sadden me if I know you are happy, my 
child.” 

The startled maiden looked at her father with 
surprise as he uttered these words; and, as he 
finished, her head fell heavily on her breast and 
tears streamed silently from her eyes. Monsieur 


72 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


De Vlierbeck took her hand tenderly as he said, 
in faltering words, — 

“ I feared, Lenora, that I would make you sad ; 
but you must become accustomed to the idea of 
our separation.” 

Lenora raised her head quickly as she replied, in 
a firm and resolute manner, “What! could Gus- 
tave ever dream of our separation ? To leave you 
at Grinselhof passing your days in seclusion while 
I and my husband were in the world in the midst 
of festivity ? I should not have an instant’s rest, 
wherever I might be ; conscience would cry aloud 
in my heart, ‘Ungrateful and insensible child, 
thy father is abandoned to suffering and solitude!’ 
Yes, I love Gustave; he is dearer to me than life 
itself, and I receive his hand as a blessing from 
God; but if he should say to me, ‘Abandon your 
father !’ — if he left me no choice except you or him, 
— I would close my eyes and reject him ! I should 
be sad; I should suffer; perhaps even I should 
die; but, father dear, I would die in your arms !” 

She bent down her head for a moment as if op- 
pressed by a dreadful thought ; but, raising her large 
eyes, liquid with tears, she fixed them on her father, 
as she added, — 

“You doubt Gustave’s affection for you; you 
imagine him capable of filling your life with sor- 
row, — of separating me from you ! Oh, father, you 
do not know him ; you do not know how much he 
respects and loves you; you do not comprehend 
the warmth of his generous and loving heart!” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


73 


De Vlierbeck bent over bis child and impressed 
a kiss on her forehead, as he was about to utter 
some words of consolation, when suddenly Le- 
nora sprang from his arms and pointed eagerly to 
the window, as if listening to approaching sounds. 

The noise of wheels and the clatter of horses 
on the road soon gave Monsieur De Vlierbeck to 
understand why his daughter had been so startled. 
His face assumed a more animated expression, and, 
descending hurriedly, he reached the door as Mon- 
sieur Denecker alighted from his coach. 

The merchant seemed in exceedingly good hu- 
mor; he grasped De Vlierbeck’s hand, expressing 
his delight at seeing him once more. “ How goes 
it with you, my old friend ? It seems that rogue, 
my nephew, has taken advantage of my absence.” 
And, although De Vlierbeck ushered him into the 
saloon with all the formality imaginable, Denecker 
slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and con- 
tinued, — 

“Well! well! we were good friends from the 
beginning ; and now I understand we are to be 
regular gossips : — at least I hope so. That scamp 
hasn’t bad taste, I must confess. He would have 
to make a long search before he found a hand- 
somer or more amiable woman than .Lenora. 
Look you, Monsieur De Vlierbeck, we must have 
a wedding frolic that people will talk of twenty 
years hence !” 

By this time they had got into the saloon and 
taken their seats; but De Vlierbeck, nervous as 
7 


74 


THE TOOR GENTLEMAN. 


he was, had considerable doubt as to the tone of 
Denecker’s remarks, and whether he was jesting 
or serious. 

“It seems,” continued Denecker, assuming a 
graver tone, “that Gustave is madly impatient for 
this union, and begs me to hasten it. I have 
taken compassion on the young fellow and left all 
the business of our house topsy-turvy to-day to 
arrange matters with you. He tells me you have 
given your consent. That was kind of you, sir. 
I thought a great deal of this affair during my 
journey, for I had observed that Cupid’s arrows 
had gone clean through and through the boy; yet 
I had fears about your consent. Inequality of 
blood, old-fashioned ideas, might perhaps inter- 
fere.” 

“And so Gustave told you that I consented to 
his marriage with Lenora?” said the old gentle- 
man, paying no attention to Monsieur Denecker’s 
remarks. 

“Did he deceive me, sir?” said Denecker, with 
surprise. 

“ Ho ; but did he communicate something else 
to you, which ought to strike you as of equal im- 
portance?” 

Denecker threw back his head with a laugh, 
as he replied, — 

“ What nonsense you made him believe ! But, 
between us two, that passes for nothing. He tells 
me that Grinselhof don’t belong to you and that 
you are poor ! I hope, Monsieur De Vlierbeck, 


THE POOH GENTLEMAN. 


75 


you have too good an opinion of my sense to 
imagine I have the least faith in such a story?” 

A shudder passed over the poor gentleman’s 
frame. Denecker’s good-humored familiarity had 
made him believe that he knew and credited 
all, and nevertheless responded to his nephew’s 
hopes ; but the last words he heard taught him 
that he must again go over the sad recital of his 
misfortunes. 

“Monsieur Denecker,” said he, “do not enter- 
tain the least doubt, I beg you, in regard to what 
I am about to say. I am willing instantly to 
consent that my daughter shall become your 
nephew’s wife ; but I solemnly declare that I am 
poor, — frightfully poor !” 

“Come, come!” cried the merchant; “we 
knew long, long ago that you were mightily 
fond of your money ; but when you marry your 
only child you must open your heart and your 
purse, my dear sir, and portion her according to 
your means. They say — pardon me for repeat- 
ing it — that you are a miser; but what a shame it 
would be to let your only daughter leave your 
house unprovided for!” 

Poor De Ylierbeck writhed on his chair as De- 
necker poured forth his incredulous jokes. “For 
God’s sake, sir,” cried he, “spare me these bitter 
remarks. I declare, on the word of a gentleman, 
that I possess nothing in the world !” 

“ Well !” cried the merchant, taking no heed 
of his remarks, and with a mocking smile, 


4 


76 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“ come ; let ns cipher the matter out on the table. 
You suppose, perhaps, that I have come here to 
ask some great sacrifice of you : hut no, De Vlier- 
beck, thank God, I have no occasion to be so close 
in my calculations. Yet a marriage is a thing 
to which there are always two parties, and it is 
just that each should bring something into the 
common stock.” „ 

“Oh, God! oh, God!” muttered the poor gen- 
tleman, as he clenched his hands convulsively. 

“ I propose to give my nephew one hundred 
thousand francs,” continued Denecker; “and if 
he wants to continue in business my credit will 
be worth as much more to him. I have no wish 
that Lenora’s portion shall equal his. Your high 
birth, and especially your character, will make up 
what is wanting in her fortune ; but what say you 
to the half, — fifty thousand francs? You will 
consent to that, or I am much mistaken. What 
say you ? Is it a bargain ?” 

Pale and trembling, De Ylierbeck sat riveted 
to his chair ; but at last, in a low, melancholy 
voice, — 

“Monsieur Denecker,” said he, “this conversa- 
tion kills me. I beg you to stop this infliction. 
I repeat that I possess nothing ; and, since you 
force me to speak before you apprize me of your 
own intentions, know that Grinselhof and its 
dependencies are mortgaged beyond their value ! 
It is useless to inform you of the origin of these 
debts. Let it suffice to repeat that I tell the 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


77 


truth ; and I beg you, without going further, now 
that you are informed of the state of my affairs, 
to declare frankly what are your designs as to 
your nephew’s marriage.” 

Although this declaration was made with that 
feverish energy which ought to have satisfied De- 
necker of its truth, it nevertheless failed to con- 
vince him. A degree of surprise displayed itself 
on the merchant’s face; hut he continued his 
observations in the same incredulous tone : — 

“ Pardon me, De Vlierbeck, but it is impossible 
to believe you. I did not think you were so hard 
in a bargain. Yet be it so: every man has his 
weakness; one is too miserly, another too pro- 
digal. ]STow, for my part, I confess that I am 
extremely anxious to spare Gustave the anxiety 
of delay. Give your daughter twenty-five thou- 
sand francs, with the understanding that the 
amount of her portion is to remain a secret ; for I 
don’t want to be laughed at. Twenty-five thou- 
sand francs ! — you cannot say it is too much ; — in 
fact, it is a trifle that will hardly pay for their fur- 
niture. Be reasonable, my good sir, and let us 
shake hands on it !” 

De Vlierbeck said nothing; but, rising ab- 
ruptly from the table, opened a closet with a 
trembling hand, and, taking from it a package 
of papers, threw them on the table. 

“ There !” said he ; “ read ; convince yourself.” 

Denecker took up the papers and began to 
examine them. As he went on, the expression 


78 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


of his face gradually changed, and at times he 
raised his head and looked upward, as if in deep 
thought. After he had been engaged for some 
time in this disagreeable task, De Ylierbeck re- 
commenced the conversation in a tone of cutting 
irony : — 

“Ah! you would not believe me, sir. Well, 
let your determination be founded on those 
papers alone. It is right you should know every 
thing ; for I have determined never again to be 
tortured. Besides the evidences of debt which 
are before you, I owe a bill of exchange for four 
thousand francs, which I cannot pay! You see 
now, Monsieur Denecker, that I am worse than 
poor, for I have debts!” 

“Alas! it is but too true,” said the stupefied 
merchant ; “ you have indeed nothing ! I see by 
these documents that my notary is also yours; 
and, although I spoke to him of your fortune, he 
left me unadvised, or, I should rather say, in 
error.” 

De Ylierbeck breathed more freely, for he felt 
as if a rock had fallen from his breast. His face 
resumed its ordinary calmness ; and, seating him- 
self, he continued : — 

“ How, sir, if you have no longer any reason to 
doubt my poverty, let me ask what are your in- 
tentions.” 

“ My intentions ?” replied the merchant; “my 
intentions are that we shall remain as good 
friends as we were before; but, as to the mar- 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


79 


riage, that of course falls to the ground. We will 
speak no more about it. What were your calcula- 
tions, Monsieur De Vlierbeck ? I think I am just 
beginning to see a little clearly into this matter ! 
You imagined, I suppose, that you would make a 
good business out of it and sell your merchandise 
as high as possible !” 

“ Sir,” exclaimed De Ylierbeck, bounding from 
his chair in rage, “ speak respectfully of my 
daughter! Poor or rich, do not dare to forget 
who she is !” 

“ Don’t get angry ! don’t get angry ! Monsieur 
De Ylierbeck. I have no desire to insult you. Far 
from it. Had your enterprise succeeded I woul d 
probably have admired you ; but finesse against 
finesse always makes a bad game ! Permit me to 
ask, since you are so touchy on the point of 
honor, if you have acted a very honorable part in 
courting my nephew and allowing his passion to 
absorb him?” 

De Ylierbeck bowed his head to conceal the 
blush that Buffused his aged cheeks ; nor did he 
awake from his painful stupor till the merchant 
recalled him by the single word, — ' 

“ Well?” 

“Ah!” stammered De Ylierbeck, “have mercy 
on me ! Love for my child, probably, led me. 
astray. God endowed her with all the gifts that 
can adorn a woman. I hoped that her beauty, the 
purity of her soul, the nobility of her blood, were 
treasures quite as precious as gold !” 

y 


80 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“ That is to say, for a gentleman, perhaps ; but 
not for so common a person as a merchant,” in- 
terrupted Monsieur Denecker, with a sneer. 

“ Don’t reproach me with having courted your 
nephew,” continued De Vlierbeck. “That is a 
word that wounds me deeply; for it is unjust. 
Their attachment was reciprocal and in every 
way unstudied. I thanked God daily in my prayers 
that he had cast in our path a savior for my 
child: — yes, a savior, I say; for Gustave is an 
honorable youth, who would have made her 
happy not so much by money as by his noble 
and generous character. Is it then so great a 
crime for a father who has unfortunately be- 
come poor to hope that his child should escape 
want ?” 

“ Certainly not,” replied the merchant; “but 
every thing is in success ; and in that respect, Mon- 
sieur De Vlierbeck, your enterprise has been un- 
fortunate. I am a man who examines his goods 
twice before he buys, and it is difficult to pass 
apples on me for lemons !” 

This heartless, trafficking slang tortured the un- 
fortunate bankrupt to such a degree that he arose 
from his seat in a passion and began to pace the 
apartment. 

You have no consideration for my misfor- 
tunes, sir,” said he. “You pretend that I designed 
deceiving you ; but was it you who discovered my 
poverty ? Are you not free to act as you please, 
after the disclosures that I have voluntarily given 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


81 


you ? And let me remark, sir, that if I listen 
humbly to your reproaches — if I even acknow- 
ledge my fault — the sense of manhood is not 
dead in my soul. You talk of 4 merchandise’ 
and ‘goods,’ as if you came here to buy some- 
thing! You allude to my Lenora, do you? 
All your wealth, sir, could not purchase her! 
and, if love is not powerful enough in your eyes 
to obliterate the pecuniary inequality between us, 
know that I am a De Vlierbeck, and that name, 
even in poverty, weighs more than all your 
money!” 

During this explosion his face kindled with in- 
dignation and his eyes shot forth their fiery rays 
upon the merchant, who, alarmed by the loud 
words and animated gestures of De Vlierbeck, re- 
garded him with an air of stupefaction from the 
other side of the apartment. 

“Good God, sir,” said he at last, “there is no 
need of so much violence and loud talk ! Each of 
us remains where he is ; each keeps what he has, 
and the affair is at an end. I have but one request 
to make of you, and it is that you will never again 
receive my nephew, — or else ” 

« Or else ?” interrupted De Vlierbeck, passion- 
ately; “do you dare to threaten me?” But, re- 
straining himself almost instantly, he continued, 
with comparative calmness, “Enough! Shall I call 
Monsieur Denecker’s carriage?” 

“If you please,” replied the merchant. “Wecan- 


82 


TIIE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


not do business together, it seems ; but that is no 
reason why we should become enemies.” 

“Well! well! we will stop short of that, sir. 
But this conversation annoys me; it must end!” 
And, so saying, he led Monsieur Denecker to the 
door and bade him farewell abruptly. De Vlier- 
beck returned to the parlor, fell into his chair and 
covered his brow with both hands, as a heavy 
groan burst from his breast, which heaved with 
almost hysterical emotion. For a long time he 
remained silent and motionless ; but soon his 
hands fell heavily on his knees, a deathly paleness 
overspread his face, and the room whirled around 
the heart-broken man. 

Suddenly he heard footsteps in the chamber 
above, and, rousing himself by a strong effort, “ Oh, 
God! my poor child!” cried he; “ my poor Lenora ! 
She comes ! my punishment is not yet complete ! 
I must break the heart of my own child ; I must 
tear from it all its hopes, blot out its dream, be- 
hold it withered up with grief ! Oh that I could 
escape this dreadful disclosure ! Alas ! What to 
say to her? how to explain it?” 

A bitter smile contracted his lips as he continued, 
with bitter irony:— “Ah! hide thy suffering, old 
man; rally thy strength; take courage! If thy 
heart is torn and bleeding, — if despair devours thy 
soul,— oh, smile, still smile! Yes! your life has 
been a continual farce ! Yet, miserable abortion 
that thou art, what canst thou do but submit, 


TIIE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


83 


yield without a fight, and how thy neck to the 
yoke like a powerless slave ? Begone, rebellious 
feeling ! Be silent, and behold thy child !” 

Lenora opened the door and ran to her father, her 
questioning eyes fixed on his with a look of hope. 
All of poor De Vlierbeck’s efforts to disguise his 
suffering were unsuccessful, and Lenora soon read 
in his face that he was a prey to some overwhelm- 
ing sorrow. As he still obstinately kept silence, 
she began to tremble, and asked, with feverish 
impatience, — 

“ Well, father, — well, — have you nothing to say 
to me ?” 

“Alas! my child,” said he, sighing, “we are not 
happy. God tries us with heavy blows. Let us 
bow before the will of the Almighty.” 

“What do you mean? what is there to fear?” 
said Lenora, beside herself. “ Speak, father ! Has 
he refused his consent?” 

“ He has refused it, Lenora !” 

“Oh, no! no!” cried the maiden ; “it is impos- 
sible!” 

“ Refused it, because he possesses millions and 
we — nothing !” 

“It is true, then? Gustave is hopelessly lost to 
me ! — lost to me forever ! 

“Hopelessly!” echoed the father. 

A sharp cry escaped Lenora as she tottered to 
the table and fell on it, weeping bitterly. 

De Vlierbeck arose and stood above his sobbing 


84 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


daughter, and, joining his uplifted hands, ex- 
claimed, in suppliant tones, — 

“Oh, pity me, pity me, Lenora! In that fatal 
interview I have suffered all the torments that 
could rack the heart of a parent; I have drunk 
the dregs of shame ; I have emptied the cup of 
humiliation ; hut all, all are nothing in comparison 
with thy grief ! Calm yourself, child of my love ; 
let me see the sweet face I so love to look on ; let 
me regain my lost strength in thy holy resignation ! 
Lenora ! my head swims ; I shall die of despair !” 

As he uttered these words he sank heavily into 
a chair, overpowered by emotion. The sound of 
his fall seemed instantly to recall Lenora to her- 
self, and, dashing the tears from her eyes, she 
leaned her head on his shoulder to listen and as- 
sure herself that he had not fainted. 

“Never to see him more ! to renounce his love 
forever ! to lose the happiness I dreamed of! Alas ! 
alas !” 

“Lenora! Lenora!” exclaimed her father, fen- 
treatingly ! 

“Oh, beloved father,” sobbed the poor girl, 
“to lose Gustave forever! The dreadful thought 
overwhelms me ! While I am near you I will 
bless God for his kindness; but my tears over- 
power me ; oh ! let me weep, let me weep, I be- 
seech you!” 

De Ylierbeck pressed his daughter more closely 
to his heart, and respected her affliction in silence. 

The stillness of death reigned throughout the 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


85 


apartment, while they remained locked in each 
other’s arms until the very excess of grief relaxed 
their embrace and opened their hearts to mutual 
consolation 


CHAPTER VI. 

Four days after Denecker had refused his consent 
to the marriage, a hired carriage might have been 
seen drawing up carefully in a screen of wood that 
bordered a by-road about half a league from Grin- 
selhof. A young man got out of it, and, giving 
directions to the coachman to await him at a 
neighboring inn, walked briskly across the moor 
toward the old chateau . As soon as Grinselhof 
began to loom up over the trees, he moved 
cautiously along behind the hedges and thickets, 
as if seeking to avoid observation; and then, 
stealing across the bridge, he opened the gate, 
passed through the dense copse that surrounded 
the house, and entered the garden. 

The first object that greeted his sight was 
Lenora, seated at her table beneath the well- 
known catalpa, with her head resting on the 
board, evidently absorbed in sorrow. Her back 
was turned toward him as he approached; and, 
although he advanced with the utmost caution, 
8 


86 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


the sound of his footsteps disturbed her in the 
intense silence of the spot, and she leaped to her 
feet, while the name of Gustave broke in surprised 
accents from her lips. She was evidently anxious 
to escape into the house ; but her lover threw him- 
self on his knees, and, grasping her hand, poured 
forth a passionate appeal : — 

“Listen to me, Lenora! listen to me! If you 
fly and refuse me the consolation of telling you, 
with my last farewell, all I have suffered and all I 
hope, I will either die here at your feet, or I will go 
hence forever, a broken-hearted wanderer over the 
face of the earth ! Listen to me ! listen to me ! 
Listen to me, Lenora, my sister, my beloved, my 
betrothed ! By our pure and holy love, I beseech 
you not to repulse me !’ 

Though Lenora trembled in every limb, her 
features assumed an expression of wounded pride, 
as she answered, with cold decision, — 

“Your boldness surprises me, sir! You are 
indeed a daring man, to appear again at Grinsel- 
hof after your uncle’s insulting conduct to my 
father ! He is ill in bed ; his soul is crushed by 
the outrage. Is this the reward of all my affection 
for you?” 

“ Oh, God ! oh, God ! Lenora, do I hear you accuse 
me ? Alas ! what have I done, and what could I 
prevent?” 

“ There is nothing, sir, any longer, in common 
between us,” said the girl. “If we are not as rich 
as you, the blood that runs in our veins cannot 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


87 


suffer by comparison. Arise ! begone ! I will see 
you no more !” 

“ Mercy ! pity!” exclaimed Gustave, lifting his 
clasped bands toward her; “mercy, Lenora, for I 
am innocent !” 

The maiden dashed away the tears that began 
to start in her eyes, and, turning her back on him, 
was about to depart 

“ Cruel, cruel !” exclaimed Gustave, in broken 
tones. “ Can you leave me without a farewell ? — 
without a word of consolation ? Will you remain 
insensible to my grief and deaf to my prayers? 
’Tis well ; I will submit to my lot, for you have 
decided it! You, Lenora, my love, have sen- 
tenced me ! I forgive you : be happy on earth 
without me, and farewell forever!” 

As he uttered these words his strength seemed 
utterly to fail him, and, sinking into the chair 
which Lenora had quitted, his head and arms fell 
lifeless on the table. 

The determined girl had made a few steps in 
her retreat to the house, when she suddenly halted 
on hearing the agonized tones of Gustave’s fare- 
well and the sudden sound of his fall on the table. 
As she glanced backward at the convulsed frame 
of her lover, a spasm that denoted the violent con- 
flict between duty and affection passed over her 
beautiful face; and, as her heart appeared gra- 
dually to conquer in the fight, the tears began to 
pour in showers from her eyes. Step by step and 
slowly she retraced the path to the table, and, 


88 THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 

leaning over the sufferer, took one of his hands 
tenderly in hers : — 

“ Are we not wretched, Gustave ? Are we not 
wretched?” 

At the touch of that gentle hand and the sound 
of that beloved voice, life seemed once more to 
stir in his veins, and, raising his eyes languidly to 
hers, he gazed mournfully into them as he half 
said, half sighed, — 

“Lenora, dear Lenora, have you come back to 
me ? Have you taken pity on my agony ? You 
do not hate me, do you ?’ 

“Is a love like ours extinguished in a day?” 
returned Lenora, with a sigh. 

“ Oh, no, no !” cried Gustave aloud ; “ it is eter- 
nal ! Is it not eternal, Lenora, and omnipotent 
against every ill as long as the hearts beat in our 
bosoms?” 

Lenora bowed her head and cast down her eyes. 

“Do not imagine, Gustave,” said she, solemnly, 
“that our separation causes me less grief than 
it does you; and, if the assurance of my love 
can assuage the pangs of absence, let it strengthen 
and encourage you. My lonely heart will keep 
your image sacred in its holiest shrine ; I will 
follow you in spirit wherever you go, and I will 
love you till death shall fill up the gulf that se- 
parates us. We shall meet again above, but never 
more on earth.” 

“You are mistaken, Lenora,” cried Gustave, 
with a feeble expression of joy; “you are mis- 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


89 


taken ! There is still hope ; my uncle is not in- 
exorable, and his compassionate heart must yield 
to my despair.” 

“ That may be,” replied Lenora, in sad but re- 
solute tones; “that may be, Gustave; but my 
father’s honor is inflexible. Leave me, Gustave ; 
I have already disobeyed my father’s orders too 
long, and slighted my duty in remaining with a 
man who cannot become my husband. Go now ; 
for, if we should be surprised by some one, my 
poor, wretched father would die of shame and 
anger.” 

“One moment more, beloved Lenora! Hear 
what I have to tell you. My uncle refused me 
your hand ; I wept, I besought him, but nothing 
could change his determination. In despair I was 
transported beyond myself ; I rebelled against my 
benefactor; and, treating him like an ungrateful 
wretch, I said a thousand things for which I 
begged his pardon on my knees when reason re- 
sumed her empire over my excited soul. My 
uncle is goodness itself to me: he pardoned my 
sin ; but he imposed the condition that I should 
instantly undertake a journey with him to Italy, 
which he has long designed making. He idly 
hopes that travel may obliterate your image from 
my mind ; but think not, Lenora, that I can ever 
forget you ! A sudden thought flashed through 
my fancy, and I accepted his terms with a secret 
joy. For months and months I will be alone 
with my uncle ; and, watching him ever with the 
8 * 


90 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


love and gratitude I feel for all his kindness, I will 
gradually wear away his objections, and, conquer- 
ing his heart, return, my love, to place the bridal 
wreath upon your brow, and claim you, before the 
altar of God, as the companion of my choice !” 

For an instant a gentle smile overspread the 
maiden’s face, and her clear, earnest gaze was full 
of rapture at the vision of future happiness ; but 
the gleam disappeared almost as quickly as it 
arose, and she answered him, with bitter sad- 
ness, — 

“ Alas ! my dear friend, it is cruel to destroy 
this last hope of your heart; and yet I must do it. 

Your uncle might consent; but my father ” 

She faltered for an instant. 

“ Your father, Lenora ? Your father would 
pardon all and receive me like a long-lost son.” 

“No, no; believe it not, Gustave; for his honor 
has been too deeply wounded. As a Christian he 
might pardon it ; but as a gentleman he will never 
forget the outrage.” 

“ Oh, Lenora, you are unjust to your father. If 
I return with my uncle’s consent, and say to him, 
i I will make your child happy ; give her to me 
for my wife ; I will surround her path with all the 
joys a husband has ever bestowed on woman ;’ — if 
I tell him this, think you he will deny me?” 

Lenora cast down her eyes. 

“You know his infinite goodness, Gustave,” 
said she. “ My happiness is his only thought on 
earth; he will thank God and bless you.” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


91 


“Yes, yes; he will consent,” continued Gus- 
tave, with ardor ; “ and all is not lost. A blessed 
ray lightens our future, and let it rekindle your 
hope, beloved of my heart! Yield not to grief; 
let me go forth on this dreary journey, but let me 
bear along with me the assurance that you await 
my return with trust in God. Remember me in 
your prayers ; utter my name as you stray through 
these lonely paths which witnessed the dawn of 
our love and where for two months I drained the 
cup of perfect bliss. The knowledge that I am 
not forgotten by you will sustain my heart and 
enable me to endure the pangs of separation.” 

Lenora wept in silence. Her lover’s eloquence 
had extinguished every spark of her pride ; and the 
rebellious heart which so lately was ready to cast 
off its rosy fetters had no longer a place for any 
thing but love and sadness. Gustave saw that he 
had conquered. 

“I go, Lenora,” said he, “strong in your affec- 
tion. I quit my country and my loved one with 
a confident hope. Whatever may happen to me, 
I will never be downcast. You will think of me 
daily, Lenora, will you not?” 

“ Alas ! I have promised my father that I will 
forget you!” sobbed the maiden, as her hand 
trembled in his. 

“ Forget me!” exclaimed Gustave. “ Can you 
force yourself to forget me ?” 

“Ho, Gustave ; no !” said she, firmly, fixing her 
large eyes on him with an intense and lingering 


92 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


gaze. “ No : for the first time in my life I will 
disobey my father. I feel that I have not the 
strength to keep my idle word. I cannot forget 
yon : till the last hour of my life I will love you ; 
for it is my fate, and I cannot resist.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks, Lenora !” 
exclaimed Gustave, in a transport. “ Thy tender 
love strengthens me against destiny. Beloved of 
my heart, rest here under the guardian eye of 
God. Thy image will follow me in my journey 
like a protecting angel; in joy and grief, by day 
and night, in health and sickness, thou, Lenora, 
wilt ever be present to me ! This cruel separation 
wounds my heart beyond expression; but duty 
commands, and I must obey. Farewell, fare- 
well!” 

He wrung her hands convulsively, and was 
gone. 

“ Gustave !” sobbed the poor girl, as she sank 
on the chair and allowed the pent-up passion of 
her soul to burst forth in tears. 


CHAPTER VH. 

Lenora secretly cherished in her heart the hope 
of a happy future ; but she did not hesitate to in- 
form her father of Gustave’s visit. De Ylierbeck 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


93 


heard her listlessly, and gave no other reply bnt a 
bitter smile. 

From that day Grinselhof became sadder and 
more solitary than ever. The old gentleman 
might generally be seen seated in an arm-chair, 
resting his forehead on his hand, while his eyes 
were fixed on the ground or on vacancy. The 
fatal day* on which the bond fell due was perhaps 
always present to his mind ; nor could he banish 
the thought of that frightful misery into which it 
would plunge his child and himself. Lenora 
carefully concealed her own sufferings in order 
not to increase her father’s grief; and, although 
she fully sympathized with him, no effort was 
omitted on her part to cheer the old man by ap- 
parent contentment. She did and said every 
thing that her tender heart could invent to arouse 
the sufferer from his reveries ; but all her efforts 
were in vain : her father thanked her with a smile 
and caress ; but the smile was sad, the caress con- 
strained and feeble. 

If Lenora sometimes asked him, with tears, 
what was the cause of his depression, he adroitly 
managed to avoid all explanations. For days 
together he wandered about the loneliest paths 
of the garden, apparently anxious to escape the 
presence even of his daughter. If she caught 
a glimpse of him at a distance, a fierce look of 
irritation was perceptible on his face, while his 
arms were thrown about in rapid and convulsive 
gesticulations. If she approached him with marks 


94 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


of love and devotion, he scarcely replied to her 
affectionate words, but left the garden to bury 
himself in the solitude of the house. 

An entire month — a month of bitter sadness 
and unexpressed suffering on both sides — passed 
in this way ; and Lenora observed with increased 
anxiety the rapid emaciation and pallor of her 
father, and the suddenness with which his once- 
lively eye lost every spark of its wonted vivacity. 
It was about this time that a slight change in the 
old gentleman’s conduct convinced her that a 
secret — and perhaps a terrible one — "weighed on his 
heart. Every day or two he went to Antwerp in 
the caliche, without informing her or any one else 
of the object of his visit. He came back to Grin- 
selhof late at night, seated himself at the supper- 
table silent and resigned, and, persuading Lenora 
to go to bed, soon went off to his own chamber. 
But his daughter was well aware that he did not 
retire to rest; for during long hours of wakeful- 
ness she heard the floor creak as he paced his 
apartment with restless steps. 

Lenora was brave by nature, and her singular 
and solitary education had given her a latent force 
of character that was almost masculine. By de- 
grees the resolution to make her father reveal his 
secret grew in her mind. And, although a feeling 
of instinctive respect made her hesitate, a rest- 
less devotion to the author of her being gradually 
overcame all scruples and emboldened her for the 
enterprise. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


95 


One day Monsieur De Vlierbeck set off very 
early for town. The morning wore away heavily ; 
and, toward the afternoon, Lenora wandered 
wearily about the desolate house, with no com- 
panion but her sad reflections. At length she 
entered the apartment where her father usually 
studied or wrote, and, after a good deal of hesi- 
tation, in which her face and gestures displayed 
the anxiety of her purpose, opened the table- 
drawer, and saw in it, unrolled, a written docu- 
ment. The paleness of death overspread her 
countenance as she perused the paper and in- 
stantly closed the drawer. After this she left the 
apartment hastily, and, returning to her chamber, 
sat down with hands clasped on her knees and 
eyes fixed on the floor in a stare of wild surprise. 

“ Sell Grinselhof /” exclaimed she. “Sell Grinsel- 
hof ! * Why ? Monsieur Denecker insulted my fa- 
ther because we were not rich enough for him. 
What is this secret? and what does it all mean? 
If it should be true that we are beggars! Oh, 
God ! does a ray of light penetrate my mind ? is 
this the solution of the enigma and the cause of 
my father’s depression ?” 

For a long time she remained motionless in her 
chair, absorbed in reverie ; but gradually her face 
brightened, her lips moved, and her eyes glistened 
with resolution. As she was endeavoring to fight 
bravely against misfortune, she suddenly heard 
the wheels of her father’s caleche returning to Grin- 
selhof. She ran down instantly to meet him ; and 
z 


96 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


as he drew up at the door she perceived the poor 
sufferer buried in a corner of the vehicle, appa- 
rently deprived of all consciousness ; and, when 
he descended from the vehicle and she saw his 
expression distinctly, the deadly pallor that covered 
his haggard cheeks almost made her sink to the 
earth with anxiety. Indeed, she had neither heart 
nor strength to utter a word to him'; but, standing 
aside in silence, she allowed the old man to enter 
the house and bury himself as usual in his 
chamber. 

For some minutes she stood on the door-sill, un- 
decided as to what she should do ; but by degrees 
her brow and cheeks began to redden, and the 
light of resolution shone in her moistened eyes. 

“Ought the feeling of respect to restrain me 
longer ?” said she to herself ; “ shall I let my father 
die without an effort ? Ho ! no ! I must know 
all ! I must tear the worm from his heart ; I must 
save him by my love !” 

Without a moment’s further delay, she ran 
rapidly through three or four chambers, and came 
to the apartment where her father was seated with 
his elbows resting on the table and his head buried 
in bis hands. Throwing herself on her knees at 
his feet, and with hands raised to him in supplica,- 
tion, — 

“Have mercy on me, father!” exclaimed she; 
“ have mercy on me, I beseech you on my knees ; 
tell me what it is that distresses you ! I must 
know why it is that my father buries himself in 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


97 


this solitude and seems to fly even from his 
child!” 

“ Lenora ! thou last and only treasure that re- 
mainest to me on earth,” replied De Vlierbeck, in 
a broken voice, with despair in his wild gaze, — 
“ Lenora, thou hast suffered dreadfully, my child, 
hast thou not? Rest thy poor head in my bosom. 
A terrible blow, my child, is about to fall on us!” 

Lenora did not seem to pay any attention to 
these remarks, but, disengaging herself from her 
father’s embrace, replied, in firm and decided 
tones, — 

“I have not come here, father, for consolation, 
but with the unalterable determination to learn 
the cause of your suffering. I will not go away 
without knowing what misfortune it is that has so 
long deprived me of your love. No matter how 
much I may venerate you and respect your silence, 
the sense of duty is greater even than veneration. 
I must — I will — know the secret of your grief!” 

“ Thou deprived of thy father’s love?” exclaimed 
De Vlierbeck, reproachfully and with surprise ; — 
“ my love for thee, my adored child, is precisely 
the secret of my grief. For ten years I have 
drained the bitter cup and prayed the Almighty 
to make you happy ; but, alas ! my prayers have 
always been ilnheard!” 

“ Shall I be unhappy, then?” asked Lenora, 
without betraying the least emotion. 

“ Unhappy, because of the misery that awaits 
us,” replied her father. “The blow that is about 

9 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


to fall on our house destroys all that we possess. 
We must leave Grinselhof.” 

The last words, which plainly confirmed her 
fears, seemed for a moment to appall the girl; 
but she repressed her feelings, and answered him, 
with increased courage, — 

“ You are not dying this slow death because ill- 
fortune has overtaken you , my father ; I know the 
unconquerable force of your character too well 
for that. Ho ! your heart is weak and yielding 
because I have to partake your poverty ! Bless 
you, bless you, for your affection ! But, tell me, 
father, if I were offered all the wealth of the world 
on condition that I would consent to see you suffer 
for a single day, what think you I would answer?” 

Dumb with surprise, the poor man looked 
proudly at his daughter, and a gentle pressure of 
her hand was his sole reply. 

“ Ah !”' continued she, “ I would refuse all the 
treasures of earth and meet poverty without a 
sigh. And you, father, — if they offered you all 
the gold of America for your Lenora, what would 
you do ?” 

“How can you ask, child?” exclaimed her fa- 
ther; “do we sell our hearts’ blood for gold?” 

“And so,” continued the girl, “our Maker has 
left us that wfifich is dearest to us both in this 
world ; why then should we mourn when we ought 
to be grateful for his compassionate care ? Take 
heart once more, dear father ; no matter what may 
be our future lot, — should we even be forced to 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


99 


take refuge in a hovel, — nothing can harm us as 
long as we are not separated !” 

Smiles, astonishment, admiration, and love, by 
turns flitted over the wan features of the poor old 
man, who seemed altogether unnerved and dis- 
concerted by the painful denouement . At length, 
after some moments of unbroken silence, he 
clasped his hands, and, gazing intensely into her 
eyes through his starting tears, — 

“Lenora, Lenora! my child!” he exclaimed, 
“ thou art not of earth ! — thou art an angel ! The 
unselfish grandeur of thy soul unmans me com- 
pletely!” 

She saw she had conquered. The light of cou- 
rage was rekindled again in her father’s eye, and his 
lofty brow was lifted once more under the senti- 
ment of dignity and self-devotion that struggled for 
life in his suffering heart. Lenora looked at him 
with a heavenly smile, and exclaimed, rapturously, 
“Up ! up ! father ; come to my arms ; away with 
grief! United in each other’s love, fate itself is 
powerless in our presence !” 

Father and daughter sprang into each other’s 
arms, and for a long while remained speechless, 
wrapped in a tender embrace ; then, seating them- 
selves with their hands interlocked, they were 
silent and absorbed, as if the world and its misery 
were altogether forgotten. 

“A new life — a new and refreshing current of 
blood — seems to have been suddenly poured into 
my veins,” said Monsieur De Vlierbeck. “Alas, 


100 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


Lenora, what a sinner I have been ! how wrong I 
was not to divulge all ! But you must pardon me, 
beloved child ; you must pardon me. It was the 
fear of afflicting you — the hope of finding some 
means of rescue, of escape — that sealed my lips. 
I did not know you, my daughter; I did not know 
the inestimable treasure that God in his mercy 
had lavished on me ! But now you shall know 
all; I will no longer hide the secret of my conduct 
and my grief. The fatal hour has come ; the blow 
I desired to ward off is about to fall and cannot 
he turned aside ! Are you prepared, dear child, 
to hear your father’s story?” 

Lenora, who was delighted to behold the calm 
and radiant smile that illuminated the face of her 
heart-broken parent, answered him instantly, in 
caressing tones, — 

“ Pour all your woes into my heart, dear father, 
and conceal nothing. The part I have to perform 
must he based on complete knowledge of every 
thing; and you will feel how much your confi- 
dence relieves your burdened soul.” 

“Take, then, your share of suffering, daughter,” 
replied De Vlierbeck, “ and help me to hear my 
cross ! T will disguise nothing. What I am about 
to disclose is indeed lamentable ; yet do not tremble 
and give way at the recital, for, if any thing should 
move you, it must be the story of a father’s torture. 
You will learn now, my child, why Monsieur De- 
necker has had the hardihood to behave toward 
us as he has done.” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


101 


He dropped her hand, but, without averting his 
eager gaze from her anxious eyes, continued : — 
“You were very young, Lenora, hut gentle and 
loving as at present, and your blessed mother 
found all her happiness centered in your care and 
comfort. We d~welt on the lands of our fore- 
fathers ; nothing disturbed the even tenor of our 
simple lives ; and, by proper economy, our mode- 
rate income sufficed to support us in a manner 
becoming our rank and name. 

“I had a younger brother, who was endowed 
with an excellent heart, but generous to a fault 
and somewhat imprudent. He lived in town, and 
married a lady of noble family who was no richer 
than himself. She was showy in her tastes and 
habits, and, I fear, induced him to increase his 
revenue by adventurous means. There can be no 
doubt that he speculated largely in the public 
funds. But probably you do not understand what 
this means, my child. It is a species of gambling , 
by which a man may in a moment gain millions]; 
and yet it is a game that may, with equal rapidity, 
plunge him into the depths of misery and reduce 
him as if by magic to the condition of a beggar. 

“At first, my brother was remarkably successful, 
and established himself in town in a style of living 
that was the envy of our wealthiest citizens. He 
came to see us frequently, bringing you, who were 
his godchild, a thousand beautiful presents, and 
lavished his affection with testimonials of kindness 
which -were proportioned to his fortune. I spoke 
9 * 


102 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


to him often about the dangerous character of his 
adventures, and endeavored to convince him that 
it was unbecoming a gentleman to risk his pro- 
perty upon the hazards of an hour ; but, as con- 
tinued success emboldened him more and more, 
the passion for gambling made him deaf to all my 
appeals, all my advice. 

“At last the evil hour came ! The luck which 
had so long favored him became inconstant ; he 
lost a considerable portion of his gains, and saw 
his fortune diminishing with every venture. Still, 
courage did not fail him ; but, on the contrary, he 
seemed to fight madly against fate, with the idle 
hope of forcing fortune to turn once more in his 
favor. But, alas, it was a fatal delusion ! 

“One night — I tremble as I recall it — I was in 
my chamber and nearly ready to retire ; you were 
already in bed, and your mother was saying her 
prayers on her knees beside your little couch. A 
tremendous storm raged without: hail beat in 
torrents against the windows, and the wind howled 
in the chimneys and swayed the trees as if it was 
about to blow down the house. The violence 
of the tempest began to make me somewhat 
anxious, when suddenly the door-bell was pulled 
and the sound of horses heard at the gate. In a 
moment the summons was answered by one of our 
servants, — for we kept two then, — and a female 
rushed into the room, throwing herself in tears at 
my feet. It was my brother’s wife ! 

“ Trembling with fright, I of course hastened to 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


103 


raise her ; but she clung to my knees, begging my 
assistance, imploring me, by every passionate ap- 
peal she could think of, to save her husband’s life, 
and convincing me by her sobs and distraction 
that some frightful calamity was impending over 
my brother ! 

“Your mother joined me eagerly in my efforts 
to calm the sufferer, and by degrees we managed 
to extract the cause of her singular conduct and 
unseasonable visit. My brother — alas ! — had lost 
all he possessed, and even more ! His wife’s story 
was heart-rending; but its conclusion filled us 
with more anxiety for her husband than his losses ; 
for, overcome by the certainty of a dishonored 
name, haunted by the reflection that law and jus- 
tice would soon overtake him, my poor brother 
had made an attempt upon his life ! The hand of 
God had providentially guided his wife to the 
apartment, where she surprised him at the fatal 
moment and snatched the deadly instrument from 
his grasp! He was then locked up in a room; 
dumb, overcome, bowed down to the earth, and 
guarded by two faithful friends. If any one on 
earth could save him, it was surely his brother ! 

“ Such was the wild appeal of my wretched 
sister-in-law, who, heedless of the stormy night, 
had thrown herself into a coach and fled to me, 
through the tempest, as her only hope for their 
salvation. There she was at my feet, bathed in 
tears, sobbing, screaming, beseeching me to accom- 
pany her to town. Could I — did I — hesitate ? Your 


104 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


tender mother, who saw at once the frightful con- 
dition of the family, and sympathized as woman’s 
heart alone can do with human misery, eagerly 
implored me not to lose a moment. 4 Save him, 
save him!’ exclaimed she; ‘spare nothing: I 
will consent to every thing you may think proper 
to do or sacrifice!’ 

“We flew back to town through the storm and 
darkness. You grow pale, Lenora, at the very 
thought of it, for it was indeed frightful, and you 
can never know the impression it made on me : 
these whitened hairs — whitened before their time 
— are the records of that terrible night ! But let 
me continue. 

“It is needless to describe the wild despair in 
which I found my brother, or to tell you how long 
I had to wrestle with his spirit in order to force a 
ray of hope into his soul. There was hut one 
means by w T hich we could save his honor and life ; 
hut — oh God ! — at what a sacrifice ! I was obliged 
to pledge all my property as security for his debts. 
Nothing could be spared; our ancestral manor- 
lands, your mother’s marriage-portion, your mode- 
rate dowry, — all were ventured with the certainty 
that the greater part would unquestionably be lost ! 
On these hard conditions my brother’s honor 
might be saved ; and, if that could be rescued, he 
was willing to renounce the determination to es- 
cape shame by death. I must in justice say that 
it was not he who demanded the sacrifice from me : 
on the contrary, he did not suppose that I could 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


105 


or would make it ; but I was satisfied in my mind 
that if I did not settle his affairs, at all hazards, he 
would execute his criminal project against his life. 
And yet — and yet, my child — I hesitated /” 

“Father!” exclaimed Lenora, “ you did not 
refuse /” 

A happy smile beamed on his face as he met the 
questioning glance of his daughter and answered, 
firmly, — 

“ I loved my brother, Lenora ; but I loved you, 
my only child, much more. The sacrifice de- 
manded of me by his creditors insured misery for 
your mother and for you !” 

“Oh, God! oh, God!” sobbed -Lenora. 

“ On one side my heart was distracted by this 
dreadful thought, while on the other I was as- 
sailed by the despair that was present in the bank- 
rupt’s chamber ; but generosity conquered in tho 
awful trial, and at daylight I sought out the 
principal creditors and signed the documents that 
saved a brother’s life and honor but gave up my 
wife and child to want.” 

“ Thank God !” gasped Lenora, as if she had 
been relieved from a horrible nightmare. “Bless 
you, bless you, father, for your noble, generous 
conduct !” 

She rose from her seat, and, passing her arms 
around his neck, gave him a glowing kiss with as 
much solemnity as if she had been anxious to 
endue this mark of love with all the fervor and 
sacredness of a benediction. 


106 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“ All ! but canst thou bless me, my child,” said 
be, with eyes full of gratitude, “for an act that 
should implore thy pardon?” 

“My pardon, father!” exclaimed Lenora, with 
surprise on all her features. “ Oh, had you done 
otherwise, what would I not have suffered in 
doubting the goodness of my parent’s heart ! 
Now, now, I love you more than ever ! Pardon 
you , father? Is it a crime to save a brother’s life 
when it is in your keeping ?” 

“Alas, Lenora, the world does not reason thus, 
and never forgives us for the guilt of poverty. 
Reduced to that, we suffer humiliations which any 
one may observe in the lives of multitudes of our 
nobles. Yes ; society regards poverty as a crime, 
and it treats us like outcasts. Our equals avoid 
us in order not to be confounded in our misery ; 
while peasants and tradesmen laugh at our mis- 
fortune as if it was a sort of agreeable revenge. 
Happy, happy they to whom heaven has given an 
angel to pour comfort and consolation into their 
hearts in hours of want and dejection ! But lis- 
ten, my child ! 

“My brother was saved, and I concealed most 
carefully the assistance 1 had been to him ; he left 
the country and went with his wife to America, 
where, ever since, he has worked hard and gained 
hardly enough to support a miserable existence. 
His wife died during the voyage. And, as to our- 
selves, we no longer possess any thing ; for Grinsel- 
hof and our other lands were mortgaged for more 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN - . 


10T 


than they were worth. Besides this, I was forced 
to borrow from a gentleman of my acquaintance 
four thousand francs upon my bond. 

“ When your mother heard of the sacrifices to 
which I was forced to submit, she made no re- 
proaches ; at first she fully approved my conduct. 
But very soon we became necessarily subjected to 
privations under which your mother’s strength de- 
clined, till, without a sigh or complaint, she began 
to fade away slowly from earth. It was a dreadful 
situation ; for, to conceal our ruin and save our 
ancestral name from contempt, we were forced to 
part with the last ounce of our silver to pay the 
interest on our debts. Gradually our horses and 
servants disappeared; the paths that led to our 
neighbors soon became grass-grown ; and we de- 
clined all social invitations, so as to avoid the ne- 
cessity of returning the compliment. A rumor 
about us began to spread through the village and 
among the noble families that had formerly been 
on terms of intimacy with us ; and scandal de- 
clared that avaricp had driven us to a life of mean- 
ness and isolation! We joyously accepted the 
imputation, and even the coldness with which our 
holiday friends accompanied it ; it was a veil with 
which society thought proper to cover us, and be- 
neath its folds our poverty was safe from scrutiny. 

“But I am approaching scenes, my child, the 
recollection of which almost unnerves me. My 
story has reached the most painful moment of my 
life, and I beseech you to hear me calmly. 


108 


TIIE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“Your poor mother wasted away to a skeleton; 
her sunken eyes were hardly visible in their deep 
sockets ; a livid pallor suffused her cheeks. As I 
saw her fading, — fading, — the wife whom I had 
loved more than life, — as I gazed on those death- 
struck features and saw the fatal evidences each 
day clearer and clearer, — I became nearly mad with 
despair and grief.” 

Lenora shuddered with emotion as her breast 
heaved convulsively under the sobs she strove to 
repress. Her father stopped a moment, almost 
overcome by the recital ; but, rallying his courage 
quickly, he forced himself to go on with his sad 
recollections : — 

“Poor mother! she did nothing but weep! 
Every time she looked at her child — her dear lit- 
tle Lenora — tears filled her eyes. Thy name was 
always on her lips, as if she were forever address- 
ing a prayer for thee to God in heaven ! At last 
the dreadful hour arrived when she heard the 
Almighty’s voice summoning her above. The 
clergyman performed the services for the dying; 
and you, my child, had been taken from her arms 
and sent out of the house. It was midnight, and I 
was alone with her whose icy lips had already im- 
printed on mine their last sad kiss. My heart bled. 
Oh, God ! how wretched — how wretched — were 
those parting hours ! My beloved wife lay there 
before me as if already a corpse, while the tears 
yet trickled down her hollow cheeks and she 
strove to utter your name with her expiring breath. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


109 


Kneeling beside her, I implored God’s mercy for 
her passing hour, and kissed away the sweat of 
agony that stood upon her brow. Suddenly I 
thought I perceived an effort to speak, and, bend- 
ing my ear to her lips, she called me by name, and 
said, ‘It is over, my love, it is over; farewell! 
It has not pleased the Almighty to assuage my 
dying hour, and I go with the conviction that 
my child will suffer want and wretchedness on 
earth !’ 

“I know T not what my love inspired me to say 
in that solemn moment; but I called God to wit- 
ness that you should escape suffering, and that 
your life should be happy ! A heavenly smile 
illuminated her eyes, and she believed my pro- 
mise. With an effort, she lifted her thin hands 
once more round my neck and drew my lips to 
hers. But soon those wasted arms fell heavily on 
the bed ; — my Margaret was gone ; — thy mother 
was no more !” 

De Vlierbeck’s head fell on his breast. Lenora’s 
bosom heaved convulsively as she took his hand 
wdthout uttering a word; and, for a long time, 
nothing was heard in that sad confessional but 
the sobs of the maiden and the sighs of her heart- 
broken father. 

“What I have yet to say,” continued the poor 
gentleman, “is not so painful as what I have al- 
ready told you: it concerns only myself. Per- 
haps it would be better if I said nothing about it; 
but I need a friend who possesses all my confi- 


110 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


dence and can sympathize with me thoroughly in 
all I have undergone for the last ten years. 

“Listen, then, Lenora. Your mother was no 
more; she was gone; — she who was my last staff 
in life ! I remained at Grinselhof alone with you, 
my child, and with my promise, — a promise made 
to God and to the dead! What should I do to 
fulfil it ? Quit my hereditary estate ? wander away 
seeking my fortune in foreign lands, and work for 
our mutual support? That would not do, for it 
would have devoted you at once to the chances of 
a wretched uncertainty. I could not think of 
such a course with any degree of satisfaction ; nor 
was it till after long and anxious reflection that a 
ray of hope seemed to promise us both a happy 
future. 

“I resolved to disguise our poverty more care- 
fully than ever, and to devote my time to the most 
elaborate cultivation of your mind. God made 
you beautiful in face and person, Lenora; but 
your father was anxious to initiate you into the 
mysteries of science and art, and, while he en- 
dowed you with a knowledge of the world, to 
make you virtuous, pious, and modest. I desired 
to make you an accomplished woman, and I hoped 
that the nobility of your blood, the charms of 
your beauty, the treasures of your heart and intel- 
lect, would compensate in society for the portion 
that was denied you. Thus was it, my child, that 
I thought in time, you would make a suitable alli- 
ance which would restore you to the position you 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


Ill 


hold by birth. For ten years, Lenora, this has 
been my occupation and my hope. What I had 
forgotten or never learned, I studied at night to 
teach you next morning; I labored hard that 
I might not only instruct you wisely hut that you 
might acquire easily ; and, at the same time, I 
strove by every honest means to conceal from you 
every thing that could give a hint or cause a sus- 
picion by which your life might be shadowed. 
Oh, Lenora, — shall I confess it ? — I have suffered 
hunger and undergone the most cruel privations; 
I have passed half my nights mending my clothes, 
working in the garden, studying an„d practising in 
the dark, so as to hide our poverty from you and 
the world. But all that was nothing ; in the si- 
lence of night I was not forced to blush before 
any one. By day I had to encounter all kinds of 
insults, and, with a bleeding heart, swallow af- 
front and humiliation.” 

Lenora looked at her father with eyes moistened 
by compassion. De Ylierbeck pressed her hand, 
and continued: — 

“Be not sad, Lenora; if the Lord’s hand in- 
flicted deep wounds with every blow, he bestowed 
a balm which cured them. One little smile of thy 
gentle face was sufficient to make me pour forth 
an ejaculation to Heaven : you, you at least were 
happy, and in your happiness I saw the fulfilment 
of my promise ! 

“At length I thought that God himself had 
thrown in our path one who would save you from 
2 A 


112 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


threatening danger. A mutual inclination arose 
between Gustave and you, and a marriage seemed 
the natural consequence. Under these circum- 
stances I apprized Monsieur Denecker, during his 
last visit, of the deplorable condition of my affairs ; 
but no sooner did I make the disclosure than he 
peremptorily refused his consent to the union. 
As if this terrible blow, which withered all my 
hopes, had not been sufficient to overwhelm me, I 
learned, almost at the same time, that the friend 
who loaned me four thousand francs, with the 
right to renew my obligation to him every year, 
had died in Germany, and that his heirs demanded 
the payment of the debt! I ran all over town, 
rapped at e'very friendly door, ransacked heaven and 
earth in my despair, to escape this last ignominy ; 
but all my efforts were fruitless. To-morrow, per- 
haps, a placard will be stuck on the door of Grin- 
selhof, announcing the sale not only of our estate 
but also of our furniture and of every trifling ob- 
ject that memory and association have rendered 
dear to us. Honor requires that we shall surren- 
der, to public sale, every thing of the least value to 
pay our debts. If fate were kind enough to allow 
us to satisfy every creditor it would be a great 
consolation, my child, in our misery. Does not 
this fatal history break your heart?” 

“ Is that all which makes you despond, father ? 
Have you no other grief? Does your heart con- 
ceal no other secret from me ?” asked Lenora. 

“Hone, my child. You know every thing.” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


113 


“I can very well understand,” replied Lenora, 
gravely, 44 that others would consider a blow like 
this as a frightful misfortune ; but how can it affect 
us ? You even appear calm. Why, father, do you, 
like me, appear indifferent to the inexorable 
decree of fate ?” 

44 Because you have inspired me with courage 
and confidence, Lenora ; because your love is 
restored to me fully after a long constraint; 
because you let me hope that you will not he 
unhappy. I know what you want to say, noble 
child, whom God has given me as a shield against 
every ill! Well, I will encounter ruin without 
bowing my head, and submit with resignation to 
the hand of God! Alas!” continued he, sadly, 
44 who can tell what sufferings are yet in store for 
us? We may be forced to wander about the 
world, — to seek an asylum far from those we 
know and love, — to earn our daily bread by the 
labor of our hands ! Oh, Lenora, you know not 
how bitter is the bread of misery, — of poverty !” 

The maiden shuddered as she saw the cloud 
falling once more like a curtain over her father’s 
face. She grasped his hand tenderly, and, fixing 
her gaze intently ’on his, said, in beseeching 
tones, — 

44 Oh, father ! let not the happy smile that just 
now lighted your features depart from them 
again ! Believe me, we shall still be happy. 
Fancy yourself in the position that awaits us : and 
what do you see in it so frightful ? I have skill to 
10 * 


114 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


do all that woman can do ; and then your instruc- 
tions have made me able to instruct others in the 
arts and sciences you have taught me. I shall be 
strong and active enough for both of us, and God 
will bless my labor. Behold us, father, peacefully 
at home, with tranquil hearts and always together 
in our neat apartment : we will love one another, 
set misfortune at defiance, and live together in 
the heaven that our common sacrifice has made ! 
Oh, it seems to me, father, that the true happiness 
of our lives is only beginning ! How can you 
still give yourself up to despair when pleasure is 
in store for us, — a pleasure such as few upon earth 
are permitted to enjoy?” 

Monsieur De Vlierbeck looked at his daughter 
with rapture. Those enthusiastic but gentle 
tones had so touched his heart, that noble cou- 
rage had inspired him with so much admira- 
tion, that tears of joy filled his eyes. With one 
hand he drew Lenora to his bosom, and, placing 
the other on her forehead, he looked to heaven 
with religious fervor. A silent prayer, a bless- 
ing on his child, an outpouring of thankfulness, 
arose from his heart, like the sacred flame from 
an altar, toward the throne of Him who had 
bestowed that angelic child ! 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


115 


CHAPTER YIH. 

A few days afterward, as De Vlierbeck bad 
predicted, the public sale of all their property was 
inserted in the papers and placarded over the city 
and neighborhood. The affair made some noise, 
and every one was astonished at the ruin of a 
person whom they considered rich and miserly. 

As the sale was stated to be in consequence of 
his departure from the country, the gossips would 
have been unable to discover the genuine motive 
if the news had not come from Antwerp that 
De Ylierbeck had resolved to pay his debts and 
was wretchedly poor. The cause of his misfor- 
tune — that is to say, his liability for his brother — 
was known, though all the circumstances were 
not fully understood. 

As soon as the publication was made, the poor 
old gentleman led, if possible, a more retired 
life than ever, in order to avoid explanations. 
Resigned to his fate, he quietly awaited the day 
of sale ; and, although his feelings often strove to 
master his resolution, the constant care and 
encouragement of his noble-hearted daughter 
enabled him to encounter the fatal hour with a 
degree of pride. 

In the mean while he received a letter from 


116 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


Gustave at Rome, containing a few lines for his 
child. The young man declared that absence 
from Lenora had only increased his affection, and 
that his only consolation was the hope of future 
union with her by the bonds of marriage. But 
in other respects the letter was not encouraging. 
He said with pain that all his efforts to change 
his uncle’s determination had, up to that time, 
been fruitless. He Ylierheck did not conceal 
from Lenora that he no longer had a hope of her 
union with Gustave, and that she ought to strive 
against this unhappy love in order to escape 
from greater disappointment. Indeed, since her 
father’s poverty had become publicly known, 
Lenora was convinced that duty commanded her 
to renounce every hope ; yet she could not 'help 
feeling pleased and strengthened by the thought 
that Gustave still loved her, and that he, whose 
memory filled her heart, dreamed of her in his 
distant home and mourned her absence. 

She kept her promises to him faithfully. How 
often did she pronounce his name in the solitude 
of that garden ! How often did she sigh beneath 
the catalpa, as if anxious to trust the winds 
with a message of love to other lands ! In her 
lonely walks she repeated his tender words; 
and often did she stop musingly at some well- 
remembered spot where he had blessed her with a 
tender word or look. 

* ,,- but poor He Ylierheck was obliged to undergo 
additional pain; for, as if every misfortune that 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


117 


could assail him was to be accumulated at that 
moment on his devoted head, he received from 
America the news of his brother’s death ! The 
unfortunate wanderer died of exhaustion in the 
wilderness near Hudson’s Bay. The poor gentle- 
man wept long and bitterly for the loss of a 
brother whom he tenderly loved; but he was 
soon and roughly turned aside to encounter the 
catastrophe of his own fate. \ 

The day of sale arrived. Early in the morning 
Grinselhof was invaded by all sorts of people, 
who, moved by curiosity or a desire to purchase, 
overran every nook and corner of the house, 
examining the furniture and estimating its value. 

* De Vlierbeck had caused every thing that was 
to be sold to be carried into the most spacious 
apartments, where, aided by his daughter, he 
passed the entire preceding night in dusting, 
cleaning, and polishing the various articles, so 
that they might prove more attractive to compe- 
titors. He had no personal interest in this labor ; 
for, his funded property having been sold some 
days before at great loss, it was certain that the 
sale of all his remaining possessions would not 
exceed the amount of his debts. It was a noble 
sentiment of honor and probity that compelled 
him to sacrifice his rest for his creditors, so as 
to diminish as much as he could the amount of 
their losses. It was clear that De Vlierbeck did 
not intend to prolong his stay at Grinselhof after 
the sale; for among the articles to be offered 


118 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


were the only two bedsteads in the house, with 
their bedding, and a large quantity of clothes be- 
longing to him and his daughter. 

Very early in the day Lenora went to the farm- 
house, where she remained until all was over. 
At ten o’clock the saloon was full of people. 
Nobles and gentlefolks of both sexes were mixed 
up with brokers and second-hand dealers who 
had come to Grinselhof with the hope of getting 
bargains. Peasants might be seen talking toge- 
ther, in low voices, with surprise at De Vlierbeck’s 
ruin ; and there were even some who laughed 
openly and joked as the auctioneer read the terms 
of sale! 

As the salesman put up a very handsome ward- 
robe, De Vlierbeck himself entered the apartment 
and mingled with the bidders. His appearance 
caused a general movement in the crowd ; heads 
went together and men began to whisper, *while 
the bankrupt was stared at with insolent curiosity 
or with pity, but by the greater part with in- 
difference or derision. Yet, whatever malicious 
feeling existed in the assembly, it did not last 
long; for the firm demeanor and imposing coun- 
tenance of De Vlierbeck was never on any occa- 
sion more instinct with that dignity which inspires 
respect. He was poor ; fortune had struck him 
a cruel blow ; but in his manly look and calm 
features there beamed a brave and independent 
soul which misfortune itself had been unable 
to crush. 


TIIE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


119 


The auctioneer went on with the sale, assisted 
in his description of the various articles by Mon- 
sieur De Vlierbeck, who informed the bidders of 
their origin, antiquity, and value. Occasionally 
some gentleman of the neighborhood, who, in 
better days, had been on good terms with Le- 
nora’s father, approached him with words of 
sympathy; but he always managed to escape 
adroitly from these indiscreet attempts at con- 
solation. Whenever it was necessary for him to 
speak, he showed so much self-command and 
composure that he was far above the idle com - 
passion of that careless crowd ; yet if his counte- 
nance was calm and dignified, his heart was 
weighed down by absorbing grief. All that had 
belonged to his ancestors — articles that were em- 
blazoned with the arms of his family and had 
been religiously preserved as heirlooms for seve- 
ral centuries — were sold at contemptible rates and 
passed into the hands of brokers. As each his- 
torical relic was placed on the table or held up by 
the auctioneer, the links of his illustrious race 
seemed to break off and depart. When the sale 
was nearly over, the portraits of the eminent men 
who had borne the name of De Vlierbeck were 
taken down from the walls and placed upon the 
stand. The first — that of the hero of St. Quentin 
— was knocked off to a dealer for little more than 
three francs ! In the sale of this portrait, and the 
laughable price it brought, there was so much 
bitter irony that, for the first time, the agony that 


120 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


had been so long torturing De Ylierbeck’s heart 
began to exhibit its traces in his countenance. 
No sooner had the hammer fallen, than, with 
downcast eyes and a sigh that was inaudible even 
to his nearest neighbor, the stricken nobleman 
turned from the crowd and left the saloon, so as 
not to witness the final sacrifice of the remaining 
memorials that bound him to his race. 

The sun was but an hour or two above the 
horizon. A deathlike silence had taken the place 
of the noise, bustle, and vulgarity that ruled 
at Grinselhof during the morning; the solitary 
garden-walks were deserted, the house-door and 
gate were closed, and a stranger might have sup- 
posed that nothing had occurred to disturb the 
usual quiet of the spot. Suddenly the door of 
the dwelling opened, and two persons appeared 
upon the sill ; one, a man advanced in life, the 
other, a pale and serious woman. Each carried a 
small package and seemed ready for travel. Le- 
nora was dressed in a simple dark gown and 
bonnet, her neck covered by a small square hand- 
kerchief. De Ylierbeck was buttoned up to the 
chin in a coarse black greatcoat, and wore a 
threadbare cap whose large visor nearly masked 
his features. Although it was evident that the 
homeless travellers had literally stripped them- 
selves of all superfluities and had determined to 
go forth with the merest necessaries of decency, 
there was something in the manner in which they 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


121 


wore their humble costumes that distinctly marked 
their birth and breeding. The old man’s features 
were not changed; but it was difficult to say 
whether they expressed pleasure, pain, or indif- 
ference. Lenora seemed strong and resolute, 
although she was about to quit the place of her 
birth and separate herself, perhaps forever, from 
all she had loved from infancy, — from those aged 
groves beneath whose shadows the dawn of love 
first broke upon her heart, — from that remembered 
tree at whose feet the timid avowal of Gustave’s 
passion had fallen on her ear. But a sense of 
duty possessed and ruled her heart. Reason in 
her was not overmastered by sensibility; and, 
when she saw her father tottering at her side, all 
her energy was rallied in the effort to sustain 
him. 

They did not linger at the door, but, crossing 
the garden rapidly, directed their steps toward 
the farm-house, which they entered to bid its 
occupants farewell. Bess and her servant-maid 
were in the first apartment below. 

“ Mother Bess,” said Monsieur De Vlierbeck, 
calmly, “we have come to bid you good-by.” 

Bess stared a moment anxiously at the tra- 
vellers, and, lifting her apron to her eyes, left the 
apartment; while the servant-maid leaned her 
head against the window-frame and began to sob 
as if her heart would break. In a short time 
Bess returned with her husband, whom she had 
found in the barn. 

11 


122 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“Alas! is it true, sir,” said the farmer, in a 
stifled voice, — “is it true that you are going to 
leave Grinselhof, and that, perhaps, we shall 
never see you again?” 

“ Come, come, mother Bess,” said the poor 
bankrupt, as he took and pressed her hand; 
“don’t weep on that account; you see we bear 
our lot with resignation. 

Bess raised her head, threw her eyes once more 
over the humble dress of her old master, and 
began to cry so violently that she could not utter 
a word. Her husband strove manfully to repress 
his emotion ; and, after an effort or two, addressed 
Monsieur De Vlierbeck in a manly way : — 

“ May I ask the favor of you, sir, to let me say 
a word or two to you in private ?” 

De Vlierbeck entered the adjoining room, where 
he was followed by the farmer, who shut the door 
carefully. 

“ I hardly dare, sir,” said he, “ to mention my re- 
quest ; but will yon pardon me if it displeases you ?” 

“Speak out frankly, my friend,” returned De 
Vlierbeck, with a smile. 

“Look you, sir,” stammered the tender-hearted 
laborer. “ Every thing that I have earned I owe 
to you. I had nothing when I married Bess ; and 
yet, with your kindness, we have managed to suc- 
ceed. God’s mercy and your favor have made us 
prosperous ; while you, our benefactors, have be- 
come unfortunate and are forced to wander away 
from their home, — God knows where ! You may 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


123 


be forced to suffer privations and want ; but that 
must not be : I would reproach myself as long as 
I live. Ob, sir!” continued he, as his voice fal- 
tered and his eyes filled with tears, “all that I 
have on earth is at your service !” 

De Ylierbeck pressed the hard hand of the 
rustic with a trembling grasp, as he replied, — 

“You are a worthy man indeed, and I am 
happy that it was once in my power to protect 
and serve you; but I cannot accept your offer, 
my friend: keep what you have earned by the 
sweat of your brow, and do not concern yourself 
for our future fate, for, with God’s help, we shall 
find means to live.” 

“ Oh, sir,” said the farmer, beseechingly, and 
clasping his hands in an attitude of entreaty, “ do 
not reject the trifle I offer you;” — he opened a 
drawer and pointed to a small heap of silver. — 
“ See !” said he ; “that is not the hundredth part 
of the good you have done us. Grant me this 
favor, I beseech you : take this money, sir ; and 
if it spare you a single suffering or trial I shall 
thank God for it on my knees !” 

Tears streamed down the wan and wrinkled 
cheeks of the poor gentleman as he replied, — 

“Thanks! thanks! my friend; but I must re- 
fuse it. All persuasion is useless. Let us leave 
this room !” 

“But, sir,” cried the farmer, in astonishment, 
“ where do you intend to go ? Tell me, for God’s 
sake !” 


124 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“I cannot,” replied Monsieur De Vlierbeck; 
“ for I don’t know myself ; and, even if I did, pru- 
dence would make me silent.” 

Uttering these words, he returned to the other 
room, where he found everybody in tears. He 
saw at once that for his own sake as well as his 
daughter’s he must end these trying scenes ; and 
accordingly, in a firm voice, he told her it was time 
to be gone. There were a few more tender and 
eager pressures of hands, a few more farewells, a 
few last looks at the old homestead and its sur- 
roundings, and the bankrupt pair sallied forth 
with their bundles, and, passing the bridge just at 
sunset, departed on foot across the desolate moor. 

It is hard to bid farewell and quit the spots with 
which, even in a summer’s journey, we have 
formed agreeable associations; but harder far it is 
to bid adieu forever to the home of our ancestors 
and the haunts of our youth. This dreadful trial 
was passing in De Ylierbeck’s heart. From a 
distant point on the road where the domain of 
Grinselhof was masked by thickets, the wanderer 
turned his eyes once more in the direction of the 
old chateau . Big tears stood in his eyes and slowly 
rolled down his hollow cheeks as he stood there, 
silent and motionless, with clasped hands, gazing 
into vacancy. But night was rapidly falling around 
the wayfarers ; and, recalling him to consciousness 
with a kiss, Lenora gently drew her father from 
the spot till they disappeared in the windings of 
the wood. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


125 


CHAPTER IX. 

Monsieur De Ylierbeck had not been gone a 
week, when a letter addressed to him from Italy 
reached the village post-office. The carrier in- 
quired of Farmer John where the old proprietor of 
Grinselhof had fixed his residence; hut neither 
from him, the notary, nor any one else in the 
neighborhood, could he discover the bankrupt’s 
retreat. The same fate awaited three or four 
other letters which followed the first from Italy ; 
and, indeed, nobody bothered himself any more 
about the wanderers except the peasant, who 
every market-day pestered the country-folks from 
every quarter with questions about his old master. 
But no one had seen or heard of him. 

Four months passed slowly by, when one morn- 
ing a handsome post-chaise stopped at the door of 
our old acquaintance the notary and dropped a 
young gentleman in travelling-costume. 

“Where’s your master?” said he impatiently to 
the servant, who excused the notary under the 
plea of his present engagement with other visitors, 
but invited the stranger to await his leisure in the 
parlor. 

The youth was evidently disconcerted by the 
ll* 


126 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


delay; for he paced the apartment with rapid strides 
and seemed altogether absorbed by some anxiety 
or disappointment which made him extremely 
restless. The notary’s visitors seemed to be either 
very tedious clients or engaged in very important 
business; for more than half an hour elapsed 
before that functionary made his appearance. He 
came into the room ceremoniously, prepared to 
measure his words and reception by his visitor’s 
rank ; but no sooner did he perceive who it was 
than his calculating features relaxed into a pro- 
fessional smile, and he advanced rapidly toward 
Gustave with outstretched hands. 

“How are you, how are you, my dear sir?” said 
he. “I have been expecting you for several days, 
and I am really happy to see you at last. I am 
greatly flattered by the confidence you are disposed 
to place in me, and am ready, whenever you 
please, to devote myself to your affairs. By-the- 
way, I suppose there is a will?” 

A shadow passed over Gustave’s brow and his 
face became serious as he took a portfolio from 
his overcoat and drew forth a package of 
papers. 

“I am pained, sir, at your loss,” said the notary. 
“ Your excellent uncle was my friend, and I de- 
plore his death more than that of any one else. 
It pleased God that he should die far away from 
his home. But such, alas ! is man’s fate. We 
must console ourselves by the reflection that we 
are all mortal. Your uncle was very fond of you, 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


127 


and I suppose you have not been forgotten in his 
last moments?” 

“You may see for yourself,” said Gustave, as 
he placed the package on the table. 

The notary ran his eyes over the papers, and, as 
he perused them, his face exhibited by turns sur- 
prise and satisfaction. 

“Permit me,” said he, “to congratulate you, 
Monsieur Gustave; these documents are all in 
order and unassailable. Heir of all his fortune ! 
Do you know, sir, that you are more than a mil- 
lionaire $” 

“We will speak of that another time,” said 
Gustave, interrupting him rather sharply. “I 
called on you to-day to ask a favor.” 

“ You have but to name it, sir.” 

“You were the notary of Monsieur De Vlier- 
beck?” 

“I was.” 

“I heard from my uncle that Monsieur De 
Vlierbeck had become very poor. I have reasons 
for desiring that his misfortunes may not be pro- 
longed.” 

“ Sir,” said the notary, “I presume that you in- 
tend to do him an act of kindness ; and, in truth, 
it could not be bestowed on a worthier man, for 
I know the cause of his ruin and sufferings. 
He was a victim of generosity and honor. He 
may have carried these virtues to imprudence and 
even to madness ; but he deserved a better fate.” 

“And now, sir,” said Gustave, “I want you to 


128 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


let me know, with the least amount of details 
possible, what I can do to assist De Vlierbeck 
without wounding his pride. I know the condi- 
tion of his affairs ; for my uncle told me all about 
them. Among other debts there was a bond for 
four thousand francs, which belongs to the heirs 
of Hoogebaen : I want that bond immediately, even 
if I have to pay four times as much as it is worth.” 

The notary stared at Gustave without replying. 

“You seem disconcerted by my demand,” said 
Gustave, somewhat anxiously. 

“Not exactly,” returned the notary; “but I do 
not altogether understand your emotion, although 
I fear the news I must impart will affect you pain- 
fully. If my anticipations are correct I have 
cause to be sorry for you, sir !” 

“Explain yourself,” cried Gustave, alarmed; 
“ explain yourself, sir ! Has death been at Grinsel- 
hof? Is my last hope destroyed?” 

“No, no,” replied the notary, quickly; “don’t 
tremble so; they both live, but they have been 
stricken by a great misfortune.” 

“Well? well?” exclaimed Gustave, with ques- 
tioning eagerness, rising from his chair. 

“Be calm, be calm, sir,” said the notary, sooth- 
ingly ; “sit down and listen ; it is not so terrible as 
you may perhaps think, since fortune enables you 
to soften their misery.” 

“Oh, God be thanked!” cried Gustave. “But 
let me beg you to hasten your disclosures, for 
your slowness racks me !” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


129 


“Know, then,” continued the notary, “that du- 
ring your absence the bond in question fell due. 
For many months De Ylierbeck made unavailing 
efforts to find money to honor it at maturity ; but 
all his property was mortgaged, and no one would 
assist him. In order to escape the mortification 
of a forced sale, De Ylierbeck offered every thing 
at public auction, even down to his furniture and 
clothes ! The sale produced about enough to pay 
his debts, and everybody was satisfied by the 
honorable conduct of De Ylierbeck, who plunged 
himself into absolute beggary to save his name.” 

“And so he lives in the chateau of his family 
only as a tenant?” 

“No ; he has left it.” 

“ And where does he reside, then ? I want to 
see him instantly.” 

“I do not know.” 

“How? — you do not know?” 

“Nobody knows where he dwells: he left the 
province without informing any one of his 
designs.” 

“Alas !” cried Gustave, with profound emotion, 
“and is it so? Shall I be forced to live longer 
without them? — without knowing what has be- 
come of them ? Can you give me no hint or clue 
to their residence ? Does nobody, nobody know 
where they are ?” 

“Nobody,” replied the notary. “The evening 
after their sale De Ylierbeck left Grinselhof on 
foot and crossed the moor by some unknown 


130 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN, 


road: I made efforts to discover his retreat, but 
always without success.’’ 

As this sad news w T as imparted to Gustave he 
grew deadly pale, trembled violently, and co- 
vered his forehead with his clasped hands, as if 
striving to conceal the big tears that ran from his 
eyes. What the notary first told him of De Vlier- 
beck’s misfortunes had wounded his se.nsibility, 
though he was less struck by that recital, because 
he had already become partially aware of the poor 
gentleman’s embarrassment; but the certainty 
that he could not immediately discover his beloved 
Lenora and snatch her from want overwhelmed 
him with the bitterest anguish. 

The notary fixed his eyes on the young man, 
shrugged his shoulders, and regarded him with 
an expression of pity. 

“ You are young, sir,” said he, “and, like most 
men at your time of life, exaggerate both pain 
and pleasure. Your despair is unfounded; for it 
is easy in our time to discover people whom we 
want to find. With a little money and diligence 
we may be sure, in a few days, to discover Mon- 
sieur De Vlierbeck’s retreat, even if he has gone 
abroad to a foreign country. If you are willing 
to charge me with the pursuit I will spare neither 
time nor trouble to bring you satisfactory 
news.” 

Gustave stared hopefully at the notary as he 
grasped his hand and replied, with a smile of 
gratitude, — 


THE POOli GENTLEMAN. 


131 


“Oh, render me that inestimable service, sir! 
Spare no money; ransack heaven and earth if it is 
necessary ; but, in God’s name, let me know, and 
let me know soon ,. where De Vlierbeck and his 
daughter are hidden. It is impossible for me to 
describe the sufferings of my heart or the ardor 
of my desire to find them. Let me assure you 
that the first good news you bring will be more 
grateful to my soul than if you had restored me 
to life.” 

“ Fear nothing, sir,” answered the notary. 
“ My clerks shall write letters of inquiry this very 
night in every direction. To-morrow morning 
early I will be off to Brussels and secure assist- 
ance from the public offices. If }^ou authorize 
me to spare no expense the secret will disclose 
itself.” 

“And I,” said Gustave, — “I will put the nume- 
rous correspondents of our house under contribu- 
tion, and nothing shall be omitted to detect their 
refuge, even if I have to travel over Europe.” 

“Be of good cheer, then, Monsieur Gustave,” 
said the notary ; “ for I doubt not we shall soon 
attain our end. And, now that you are assured 
of my best services, I will be gratified if you 
allow me to speak to you a moment quietly and 
seriously. I have no right to ask what are your 
intentions, and still less the right to suppose that 
those intentions can be any thing else than proper 
in every respect. May I inquire if it is your de- 
sign to marry Mademoiselle Lenora?” 


132 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“That is my irrevocable determination,” re- 
plied the young man. 

“Irrevocable?” said the notary. “Be it so! 
The confidence which your venerable uncle was 
always pleased to repose in me, and my position 
as notary of the family, impose on me the duty 
of setting before you coolly what you are about to 
do. You are a millionaire; you have a name which 
in commerce alone represents an immense capital. 
Monsieur De Ylierbeck is penniless ; his ruin is 
generally known; and the world, justly or un- 
justly, looks askance at a ruined man. With 
your fortune, with your youth and person, you 
may obtain the hand of an heiress and double 
your income !” 

Gustave listened to the first words of this cal- 
culating essay with evident impatience; but he 
soon turned away his eyes and began to fold up 
the papers and put them in his portfolio. As the 
notary finished, he answered, quickly, — 

“ Well, well, I suppose you have done your 
duty, and I thank you ; but we have had enough 
of that. Tell me who owns Grinselhof now?” 

The man of business appeared considerably dis- 
concerted by the contemptuous interruption of 
his visitor ; yet he strove to conceal his mortifica- 
tion by a sorry smile, as he replied, — 

“I see, sir, that you have taken a firm stand 
and will do as you please. Grinselhof was bought 
in by the mortgagees, for the price offered was 
below its value.” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


133 


“Who lives there? 

“ It is uninhabited. No one goes to the country 
in winter.” 

“ Can it be bought from its present pro- 
prietor?” 

“ Certainly. I am authorized to offer it to any 
one for the amount of the mortgages.” 

“Then Grinselhof belongs to me l Be kind 
enough to inform the owners of it at once !” 

“Very well, sir. Consider Grinselhof as your 
property from this moment. If you wish to visit 
it you will find the keys at the tenant’s house.” 

Gustave took his hat and made ready to go, 
and, as he did so, pressed the notary’s hand with 
evident cordiality : — 

“ I am tired and need repose, for I feel some- 
what overcome by the sad news you have given 
me. May God help you in your efforts to fulfil 
your promises! My gratitude will surpass all 
you can imagine. Farewell till to-morrow !” 


CHAPTER X. 

Spring, gentle spring, had thrown aside the 
funeral garb of winter, and earth awoke again 
to vigorous life. Grinselhof reappeared in all 
the splendor of its wild, natural scenery; its 
12 


134 


THE POOK GENTLEMAN. 


majestic oaks displayed their verdant domes, its 
roses bloomed as sweetly as of old, elder-blos- 
soms filled the air with delicious odor, butterflies 
fluttered through the garden, and eve^ thicket 
was vocal with the song of birds. 

Nothing seemed changed at Grinselhof: its 
roads, its paths, were still deserted, and sad was 
the silence that reigned in its shadows. Yet im- 
mediately around the house there was more life 
and movement than formerly. At the coach- 
house two grooms were busy washing and polish- 
ing a new and fashionable coach ; while the neigh 
of horses resounded from the stable. A trim 
waiting-maid stood on the door-sill laughing and 
joking with the lackeys, and a respectable old 
butler looked knowingly on the group. 

Suddenly the clear silvery ring of a bell was 
heard from the parlor, and the waiting-maid ran 
in, exclaiming, “ Good Heavens ! there’s Mon- 
sieur ringing for his breakfast, and it is not 
ready yet !” 

A few moments afterward she was seen mount- 
ing the staircase with a rich silver salver covered 
with breakfast-things ; and, entering the parlor, 
she placed them silently on a table before a young 
gentleman who seemed entirely absorbed by his 
own thoughts, and then instantly left the room 
without a word. 

The young man began his meal with a careless, 
indifferent air, as if he either had no appetite or 
did not know what he was about. The furniture 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


135 


of the apartment in which he sat presented odd 
and striking contrasts to an observer. While 
some of the articles were remarkable for the rich- 
ness and elegance of their modern style, there 
were chairs, tables, and cabinets whose sombre 
hue and elaborate carving denoted an antiquity 
of several centuries. On the walls were nume- 
rous pictures, dimmed by smoke and time, en- 
cased in frames that had lost half their ornaments 
and gilding. These were portraits of warriors, 
statesmen, priests, and prelates. In the dim cor- 
ners of the canvas armorial bearings of the house 
of De Ylierbeck might be seen, and many of the 
articles of furniture were embellished with the 
same blazonry. 

We were told a while ago that a public sale at 
Grinselhof had dispersed among a crowd of com- 
petitors every thing that belonged to Monsieur 
De Ylierbeck. How has it come to pass that 
these portraits have returned to their old nails 
on walls which they seemed to have abandoned 
forever ? 

The listless youth rose from the table, walked 
slowly about the room, stopped, looked mourn- 
fully at the portraits, recommenced his walk, and 
approached an antique casket placed on a bracket 
in the corner. He opened it with apparent in- 
difference and took out some simple jewelry, — 
a pair of ear-rings and a coral necklace. He 
gazed long at these objects as he held them in his 
hand ; a few tears fell on them, a deep sigh 


136 


TIIE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


escaped from his bosom, and he then replaced the 
jewels in their casket. 

Quitting the room, he descended to the court. 
Waiters and servant-maids saluted as he passed : 
he acknowledged their civility by a silent nod 
and went forth to the most secluded parts of the 
garden. Stopping at the foot of a wild chestnut- 
tree, he threw himself on the ground, w T here he 
sat long in moody reverie until aroused by the 
ringing voice of Bess, who approached him with 
a hook in her hand : — 

“Here, sir, is a hook which Mademoiselle 
Lenora used to read. My goodman went yester- 
day to market, where he found the farmer who 
bought it at the sale. After market was over 
John accompanied the peasant home, and would 
not leave him till he had bought the hook back 
again. I suppose it is an excellent book, as 
Mademoiselle used to love it so ; and neither gold 
nor silver could ever get it from me if it wasn’t 
for you, sir. Husband says it is called ‘Lu- 
cifer’ !” 

While she was running on, Gustave seized 
the hook eagerly and ran over its pages without 
paying attention to what she said. “ Thank you, 
thank you for your kind attention, mother Bess !” 
said he. “You can’t think how happy I am 
whenever I find any thing that belonged to your 
mistress. Be assured that I will never forget your 
goodness.” After ottering this expression of his 
thanks to the farmer’s wife he opened the book 


THE .POOR GENTLEMAN. 


137 


again and began to read without heeding her 
further. But the good woman did not go away, 
and soon interrupted him with a question : — 

“ May I ask, sir, if you have any news yet of 
our young lady ?” 

Gustave shook his head. “Not the least scrap 
of news, mother Bess. My search has been fruit- 
less.” 

“ That is unlucky, sir. God knows where she 
may be and what she is suffering. She told me 
before she went away that she meant to work for 
her father ; but one must have learned to work 
very early in life to earn a living by one’s hands. 
My heart almost breaks when I think of it. Per- 
haps that good, sweet young lady is reduced to 
work for other people and labors like a slave to 
get a mouthful of bread ! I have been a servant, 
sir, and I know what it is to work from morning 
until night for others. And she, — she who is so 
beautiful, so clever, so kind ! Oh, sir, it is ter- 
rible! I can’t help crying like a child, thinking 
of her miserable life !” 

Gustave was overcome by the simple eloquence 
of the poor woman, and remained silent. 

“And then to think,” continued Bess, “ she might 
now be so happy ! that she might again become mis- 
tress of Grinselhof, where she was born and grew 
up ! that her father might pass his old days in 
quietness, and that they are now wandering about 
the world poor, sick, abandoned outcasts ! Oh, 
sir, it is sad to know that our benefactors are un- 
12 * 


138 . 


TIIE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


happy, and to be able to do nothing for them but 
pray to God and hope for bis mercy !” 

The simple-minded woman, without meaning it, 
had touched some tender strings in Gustave’s heart ; 
and, as she saw the silent tears coursing their way 
down his cheeks, she said, entreatingly, — 

44 Oh, pardon me, sir, for having grieved you so 
by my talk ! but my heart is full, and my feelings 
force their way without knowing it. If I have 
done wrong, I am sure you are too kind to be 
angry with me for loving our young lady so much 
and bemoaning her misfortune. Have you no 
orders for me to-day, sir ?” 

She was about to go, as Gustave raised his down- 
cast eyes and, restraining his tears, exclaimed, — 

“ I — angry with you, mother Bess ? — and angry, 
too, because you show affection for our poor 
Lenora? Oh, no, no ! On the contrary, I bless you 
for it with all my heart ! The tears you betrayed 
from my heart have done me good ; for I am very 
unhappy. Life is a burden; and if God, in his 
mercy, would take me away from earth, I would 
gladly die. All hope of seeing her again in this 
world is gone. Perhaps she is awaiting me in the 
next!” 

44 Oh, sir ! sir ! how you talk !” cried the peasant- 
woman, in alarm. 44 Ho ! no ! that cannot be !” 

44 You grieve, my good woman, and shed tears 
for her,” continued Gustave, without heeding the 
interruption ; 44 but don’t you see how my soul 
must be consumed with despair? Alas! for 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


139 


months and months I have implored God for 
the happiness of seeing her once more ! I over- 
came all obstacles to our marriage, and 1 became 
almost mad with joy and impatience as I flew like 
lightning to the home where I left her ; and then 
my only recompense, my only consolation, was to 
find her gone and the house of her fathers a wil- 
derness ! — to know, alas ! that she is poor, and, 
perhaps, languishing in want ! — to know that my 
noble-hearted and beloved Lenora sinks under 
the weight of misfortune, and yet to be able to do 
nothing to relieve her! — to be condemned to 
count in powerless despair her days of affliction, 
and not even to be sure that suffering has not 
killed her !” 

A profound silence followed this complaining 
outburst, and the peasant-woman, with her head 
bent to the earth, sympathized with him truly, till, 
after a few moments, she attempted to console the 
sufferer in her simple way : — 

“ Oh, sir, I understand only too well how much 
you endure ! And yet why despair ? Who knows 
but we may receive some news of our dear young 
lady when we least expect it ? God is good ; he 
will hear our prayers ; and our joy for her return 
will make us forget all our grief !” 

“Oh that your prophecy might be realized, my 
good woman ! But seven months have already 
gone since they departed. During three of them 
a hundred persons have been employed in seeking 
the wanderers. They have been sought for in 


140 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


every direction, and not the slightest intelligence 
has been obtained; not a trace, not the least sign 
that they are even alive ! My reason tells me not 
to despair ; but my heart magnifies my ills and cries 
aloud that I have lost her ! — lost her forever !” 

He was about quitting the garden, when a noise 
attracted his attention as he pointed toward the 
road leading to the chateau . 

“Listen ! Don’t you hear something ?” cried he. 

“It is the gallop of a horse,” answered Bess, 
without comprehending why the noise so much 
startled her master. 

“Poor fool!” said the young man to himself; 
“why am I so startled by the passing of a horse- 
man?” 

“But see! see! he is coming into the avenue!” 
cried Bess, with increasing interest. “Oh, God ! I 
am sure it is a messenger with news ! Heaven 
grant it may be good!” 

As she said this the rider passed through the gate 
at full gallop, and, drawing rein at the door they 
had just reached, took a letter from his pocket 
and handed it to the master of Grinselhof : — 

“I come,” said he, “from your notary, who 
ordered me to deliver you this letter without a 
moment’s delay.” 

Gustave broke the seal with a trembling hand, 
while Bess, smiling with hope, followed all her 
master’s movements with staring eyes. 

As he read the first lines the anxious youth 
grew pale; but as he went on a tremor ran 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


141 


through all his limbs, till with a hysterical laugh 
and clasped hands he exclaimed, — 

“ Thanks ! thanks ! Oh, God ! she is restored to 
me !” 

“Oh, sir, sir,” cried Bess, “is it good news?” 

“Yes! yes! rejoice with me! Lenora lives! I 
know where she is !” answered Gustave, half mad 
with delight, running into the house and calling 
all the servants. “ Quick ! quick ! Have out the 
travelling-carriage and the English horses! My 
trunk! my cloak! Quick! fly!” 

He carried forth with his own hands a number 
of things that were necessary for the journey. 
His fleetest horses were attached to the vehicle ; 
and, although they strained their bits and pawed 
the ground as if impatient for the road, the pos- 
tillion lashed them fiercely as they dashed through 
the gateway. 

In a moment, and almost as if by magic, the 
coach was on the road to Antwerp and hidden 
from the staring crowd by a cloud of dust. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Suppose that we too take a trip in fancy to 
Nancy, in France, in search of poor De Ylierbeck 
and his daughter. Let us wind . through an im- 


142 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


mense number of narrow streets in the quarter 
known as the Old Town and at last halt at the 
door of an humble cobbler. This is the place. 
Pass through the shop, mount the staircase ; an- 
other story yet ; open that door, and here we are. 

Every thing indicates poverty; but order and 
neatness preside over the room. The curtains 
of the little bed are white as snow, the stove is 
polished with black-lead till it shines, and the 
floor is sanded in Flemish style. Mignonette 
and violets bloom in a box on the window-sill, 
and a bird chirps in its cage above them. A 
young woman sits in front of the window; but 
she is so intent on the linen she is sewing that 
no other sound is heard in the silent room but that 
made by the motion of her hands as they guide the 
needle. She is dressed in the plainest garments ; 
yet they are cut and put on so gracefully that one 
may declare at a glance she is a lady. 

Poor Lenora ! And this was what fate had in 
store for thee ! To hide thy noble birth under 
the humble roof of a mechanic ; to seek a refuge 
from insult and contempt far from thy childhood’s 
home ; to work without relaxation ; to fight against 
privation and want, and to sink at last into shame 
and poverty, heart-broken by despair! Misery, 
doubtless, has cast a yellow tinge upon thy cheeks 
and stolen its radiance from thy glance. But no ! 
thank God, it is not so ! Thy heroic blood has 
strengthened thee against fate, and thy beauty is 
even more ravishing than of old ! If a cloistered 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


143 


life has chastened thy roses, their tender bloom 
has only become more touching. Thy brow has 
grown loftier and purer; thine eyes still glisten 
beneath their sweeping lashes ; and that well-re- 
membered smile still hovers around thy coral lips ! 

Suddenly Lenora stopped working. Her hands 
rested on the work in her lap, her head bent for- 
ward, her eyes were riveted dreamily on the 
ground, and her soul, wandering perhaps to other 
lands, seemed to abandon itself on the current of 
a happy reverie. After a while she placed the 
linen she had been sewing on a chair and got up 
slowly. Leaning languidly on the window-frame, 
she gathered a few violets, played with them a 
while, and then looked abroad at the sky over 
the roof-tops, as if longing to breathe once more 
the fresh air and enjoy the spring. Soon her eyes 
fixed themselves compassionately on the bird that 
hopped about its cage and ever and anon struck 
its bill against the wires as if striving to get out. 

“ Why dost thou want to leave us, dear little • 
bird?” said she, softly. “ Why dost thou wish to 
be gone, dear comforter of our sadness? Sing 
gayly to-day; father is well again, and life is 
once more a pleasure. What is it makes thee 
flutter about so wildly and pant in thy cage ? Ah ! 
is it not hard, dear little one, to be captive when 
we know there are joy and freedom in the open 
air ? — when we are born in the fields and woods? — 
when we know that there alone are independence 
2 C 


144 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


and liberty . Like thee, poor bird, I am a child 
of nature; I too have been torn from my birth- 
place; I too bemoan the solitudes where my 
childhood was passed ! But has a friend or lover 
been snatched from thee — as from me — forever?- 
Dost thou grieve for something more ^han space 
and freedom ? Yet why do I ask ? Thy love-sea- 
son has come round again, has it not ? and love is 
the greatest blessing of thy little life I I under- 
stand thee, poor bird ! I will no longer be thy 
fate ! Fly away, and God help you ! Begone, 
and enjoy the two greatest blessings of life ! Ah, 
how thou singest as thy wings bear thee away, — 
away to the sky and woods! Farewell ! farewell !” 
As she uttered these last words Lenora opened 
the cage-door and released the bird, which darted 
away like an arrow. After this she resumed her 
work and sewed on with the same zeal as be- 
fore, till aroused by the sound of footsteps on the 
staircase. 

“It is father! God grant he may have been 
lucky to-day !” 

Monsieur De Ylierbeck entered the room with a 
roll of paper in his hand, and, throwing himself 
languidly into a chair, seemed altogether worn out 
with fatigue. He had become very thin ; his eyes 
were sunk in their sockets, his cheeks were pale, 
and his whole expression was changed and broken. 
It was very evident that sickness or depression, or 
perhaps both, had made fearful ravages on his 
body as well as spirits. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


145 


The poor old gentleman was wretchedly clad. 
It was evident that he had striven as formerly to 
conceal his indigence, for there was not a stain or 
grain of dust on his garments ; but the stuff was 
threadbare and patched, and all his garments were 
too large for his shrunken limbs. 

Lenora looked at him a moment anxiously. 
“You do not feel ill, father, do you?” 

“ Yo, Lenora,” replied he ; “ but I am very 
wretched.” 

Lenora said nothing, but embraced him ten- 
derly and then knelt down with his hand in hers. 

“Father,” said she, “it is hardly a week since 
you were ill in bed : we prayed to God for your 
restoration, and he listened to our prayers ; you 
are cured, dear father, and yet you give way anew 
at the first disappointment. You have not been 
successful to-day, father? I see it in your face. 
Well, what of it? Why should it interfere with 
our happiness? We have long learned how to 
fight against fate. Let us be strong and look 
misery in the face with heads up: courage is 
wealth ; and so, father dear, forget your disappoint- 
ment. Look at me. Am I sad ? do I allow myself 
to be downcast and despairing? I suffered and 
wept enough when you were ill; but, now that 
you are well again, come what may, your Lenora 
will always thank God for his goodness!” 

The poor old man smiled feebly at the cou- 
rageous excitement of his daughter. 

“Poor child!” said he; “I understand very well 
13 


146 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


how you strive to appear strong in order to keep 
me up. May heaven repay your love, dear angel 
whom God has given me ! your word and smile 
control me so completely that I may say a part of 
your soul passes with them into mine. I came 
home just now quite heart-broken and half crazy 
with despair ; hut you, my child, have restored me 
to myself again.” 

“ That’s right, father,” said she, rising from her 
knees and sitting down on a chair close beside 
him ; “ come, father, tell me now all your adven- 
tures to-day, and afterward I will tell you some- 
thing that will make you laugh.” 

“Alas, my child! I went to Monsieur Ron- 
cevaux’s academy to resume my English lessons ; 
hut during my sickness an Englishman was put 
in my place : we have lost our best bit of bread.” 

“Well, how is it about Mademoiselle Pauline’s 
German lesson ?” 

“ Mademoiselle Pauline has gone to Strasburg 
and will not come hack again. You see, Lenora, 
that we are losing every thing at once ; so, have 
I not cause to he anxious and downcast? This 
news seems to overcome you, my child, strong as 
you are !” 

In truth, Lenora was somewhat appalled by the 
dejecting words; but her father’s remark restored 
her self-possession, and she replied, with a forced 
smile, — 

“I was thinking, father, of the pain these dis- 
missals gave you, and they really annoyed me. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


147 


Yet there are some things that ought to make me 
happy to-day. Yes, father, I have some good news 
for you !” 

“ Indeed ? You astonish me !” 

Lenora pointed to the chair. 

“Do you see that linen ?” said she. “I have a 
dozen tine shirts to make out of it; and when 
they are done there are as many more waiting for 
me. They pay me good wages, and I think, from 
what they say, that in time there will be something 
better in store for me. But as yet that is only a 
hope, — only a hope.” 

De Vlierbeck seemed particularly struck by the 
last remark of his daughter, as he looked at her 
anxiously. 

“Well! well! what is it that makes you so 
happy and hopeful?” said he. 

Lenora took up her sewing again and went 
busily to w T ork. 

“ You wouldn’t guess it in a week, father ! Do 
you know who gave me this work ? It is the rich 
lady who lives in the house with a court-yard, at 
the corner of our street. She sent for me this 
morning, and I went to her while you were abroad. 
You are surprised, father; are you not?” 

“I am, indeed, Lenora. You are speaking of 
Madame De Boyan, for whom you were employed 
to embroider those handsome collars. How does 
she come to know you?” 

“I really don’t know. Perhaps the person who 
gave me her collars to embroider told her who 


148 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


worked them : she must have spoken to her about 
your illness and our poverty, for Madame De 
Royan knows more of us than you imagine/ 

“ Heavens ! She does not know ” 

“Ho! she knows nothing about our name or 
from whence we came.” 

“ Go on, Lenora; you excite my curiosity. I see 
you want to teaze me to-day !” 

“Well, father, if you are tired I will cut my 
story short. Madame De Royan received me 
with great kindness, complimented me on my 
embroidery, asked me some questions about our 
misfortunes, and consoled and encouraged me 
generously. ‘Go, my child!’ said she, as she gave 
me the linen; ‘work with a good will and he 
prudent : I will protect you. I have a great deal 
of sewing to do, — enough for two months at least. 
But that would not be enough ; I mean to recom- 
mend you to all my friends, and I mean to see 
that you are paid for your work in such a way that 
your father and yourself shall be above want.’ 
I took her hand and kissed it, for I was touched 
by the delicacy with which she give me work and 
not alms ! Madame De Royan understood me, and, 
laying her hand kindly on my shoulder, ‘ Keep up 
your spirits, Lenora,’ said she; ‘the time will come 
when you must take apprentices to help you, and 
so by degrees you will become mistress of a shop.’ 
Yes, father, that’s what she said; I knffw her 
words by heart.” 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


149 


With this she sprang to her father, embraced 
him, and added, with considerable emotion, — 

“ What say you to it, father? Is it not good 
news? Who knows what may come to pass? 
Apprentices, — a shop, — a store, — a servant: you 
will keep the books and buy our goods, I will sit in 
the room and superintend the workwomen ! How 
sweet it is to be happy and to know that we owe 
all to the work of our hands ! Then, father, your 
promise will indeed be fulfilled, and then you may 
pass your old days happily.” 

There was a look of such extreme serenity in 
Monsieur De Vlierbeck’s face, an expression of 
such vivid happiness was reflected from his 
wrinkled cheeks, that it was evident he had al- 
lowed his daughter’s story to bewitch him into 
entire forgetfulness. But he soon found it out, 
and shook his head mournfully at the enchan- 
tress : — 

“ Oh ! Lenora, Lenora, you witch ! how easily 
have you managed to seduce me ! I followed 
your words like a child, and I really believed in 
the happiness you promised. But let us be se- 
rious. The shoemaker spoke to me again about 
the rent, and asked me to pay it. We still owe 
him twenty francs, do we not?” 

“ Yes, twenty francs for rent, and about twelve 
francs to the grocer : that’s all. When the shirts 
are done we will give my wages on account to the 
shoemaker, and I know he will be satisfied. The 
grocer is willing to give us longer credit. I re- 
13 * 


160 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


ceived two francs and a half for my last work. 
You see very well, father, that we are still quite 
rich, and before a month is over will be out of 
debt entirely.” 

Poor De Ylierbeck seemed quite consoled ; and 
a gleam of fortitude shone in his black eyes as he 
approached the table, unrolling the paper he had 
brought with him on his return. 

“I have something to do too, Lenora. Pro- 
fessor Delsaux gave me some pieces of music to 
copy for his pupils, which will give me four francs 
in a couple of days. And now be quiet a while, 
my dear child; my nerves are so shattered that 
if we talk I shall make mistakes and spoil the 
paper.” 

“I may sing, father; may I not?” 

“ Oh, yes ; that won’t annoy me : your song will 
please my ear without distracting my attention.” 

The old gentleman went on writing, while Le- 
nora, with a rich and joyous voice, repeated all her 
songs and poured forth her heart in melody. She 
sewed meanwhile diligently, and, from time to 
time, glanced at her father to see whether the 
cloud had fallen again over his face and spirit. 

They had been a considerable time engaged with 
their several occupations, when the parish clock 
struck ; and, putting down her w T ork hastily, Le- 
nora took a basket from behind the stove and 
prepared to go out. Her father looked up with 
surprise as he said, — 

“What! already , Lenora?” 


THE POOH GENTLEMAN. 


151 


“It has just struck lialf-past eleven, father.” 

Without making any other remark, De Vlier- 
beck bent his head again over the music-paper 
and continued his task. 

Lenora soon returned from her walk with her 
basket full of potatoes and something else tied 
up in a paper, which she hid beneath a napkin. 
Then, pouring some water in a pot which she 
placed beside her chair, she began to sing, and 
threw in the potatoes as she peeled them. After 
this she kindled a fire in the stove and set the pot 
of potatoes to boil. After the fire burned well 
she put a skillet, with a little butter and a good 
deal of vinegar, over the coals. 

Up to this moment her father had not looked 
up nor intermitted his work ; he saw her getting 
dinner ready every day, and it was seldom that any 
variety of food appeared on their table. But, 
hardly had the potatoes begun to boil, when an 
agreeable perfume was diffused through the cham- 
ber. De Vlierbeck glanced up from his writing, 
a little reproachfully, as he exclaimed, — 

“ What ! meat on Friday, my child ? you know 
very well we must be economical.” 

“ Don’t be angry, father,” answered Lenora; 
“ the doctor ordered it.” 

“ You are trying to deceive me, are you not?” 

“No, no ; the doctor said you required meat at 
least three times a week, if we could get it ; it will 
do you more good than any thing else in restoring 
your strength.” 


152 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


“And yet we are in debt, Lenora!” 

“ Come, come, father, let our debts alone ; 
everybody will be paid and satisfied. Don’t 
trouble yourself about them any more : I’ll an- 
swer for them all. And now be so good as to 
take your papers off of the table, so that I can lay 
the cloth.” 

De Vlierbeck got up and did as he was asked. 
Lenora covered the deal-boards with a snowy 
napkin and placed on it two plates and a dish of 
potatoes. It was indeed an humble table, at 
which all was extremely common ; yet every 
thing was so neat, fresh, and savory, that a rich 
man might have sat down to it with appetite. 
They took their places and asked a blessing on 
the meal; but, before the prayer was finished, 
Lenora started suddenly and interrupted her 
father. With eyes staring toward the door and 
head leaned forward, she listened eagerly, motion- 
ing her father with her hand to be silent. 

There was a sound of footsteps and voices on 
the staircase, and, as they approached, Lenora 
thought she recognised the tones. She bounded 
to the door with a sharp cry, and, closing it, 
leaned against the boards to prevent any one 
from entering. 

“For God’s sake, child, what are you afraid 
of?” cried her father. 

“ Gustave ! Gustave !” whispered Lenora, with 
pale and quivering lips. “ He is there ! he is 
there ! I hear him. Take away that table quickly. 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


153 


Of all the world he is the last who should see our 
misery !” 

De Vlierbeck’s face grew dark, his head became 
erect and fierce, and his eyes flashed with their 
ancient fire. Advancing silently to his daughter, 
he drew her from the door. Lenora fled to a 
corner of the room, and covered her face, which 
was red with mortification. 

Suddenly the door opened, and a young man 
rushed into the chamber with an exclamation of 
joy as he advanced, open-armed, toward the trem- 
bling girl, whom he would have pressed to his 
breast had not the hand and look of her father 
arrested his steps. 

For a moment he stood like one stupefied, 
glancing from the wretched board to the misera- 
ble dress of the old man and his daughter. The 
sight affected the intruder, for he covered his eyes 
as he exclaimed, in subdued and despairing tones, 
“ Oh, God ! has it come to this ?” 

But he did not allow himself to remain long 
under the influence either of his feelings or of her 
father, and, advancing anew to Lenora, seized and 
pressed both her hands ardently. 

“ Oh ! look at me, Lenora ! Let me see if thy 
heart has preserved the memory of our love !” 

Lenora’s eyes met his at once and with affec- 
tion. It was a look that completely revealed her 
pure and constant soul. 

“ Oh, happiness !” cried Gustave, enthusiasti- 
cally ; “ thou art still my dear and tender Lenora ! 


154 


TILE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


Thank God, no power on earth can ever separate 
me again from my betrothed ! Receive, receive 
the kiss of our union ! 

Tie stretched his arms toward her. Lenora, 
trembling with agony and happiness, stood down- 
cast and blushing, as if awaiting the solemn kiss ; 
but, before Gustave could accomplish the act, He 
Ylierbeck was by his side, and, grasping his hand, 
held him motionless. 

“ Monsieur Henecker,” said her father, severely, 
“ have the goodness to moderate your transports. 
We are certainly glad to see you once more; but 
neither you nor I can forget what we are. Re- 
spect our poverty !” 

a What do you say?” cried Gustave. “What 
you are! You are my friend, — my father. Lenora 
is my betrothed ! Oh heaven ! why look at me 
so reproachfully?” 

He seized the hand of Lenora again, and, draw- 
ing her toward her father, rapidly continued : — 

“ Listen ! My uncle died in Italy and left me 
heir of all his property. He commanded me on 
his death-bed to marry Lenora. I have searched 
heaven and earth to find you. I have suffered for 
many months all the torture that a nature like 
mine can endure ; and at length I have disco- 
vered you ! I have come, sir, to ask the reward 
of my suffering. I lay my fortune, heart, and 
life at your feet; and; in exchange, I implore the 
happiness of leading Lenora to the altar. Grant 
me that favor, 0 my father ! Grinselhof awaits 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


155 


you. I bought it for you. Every thing is there 
again. The portraits of your ancestors are in 
their places on the wall, and every thing that was 
dear to you is restored. Come ! let me watch 
your old days, your declining years, with the 
veneration of a son ! let me make you happy 
again ; — oh, how happy !” 

The old man’s expression did not change, yet a 
tear moistened his eye. 

“Ah!” continued Gustave, “nothing on earth 
can again separate me from her, — not even a 
father’s power; for I feel that God himself has 
given her to me ! Yet pardon me, father, for 
my rashness, and bestow your benediction P 

De Vlierbeck seemed to have utterly forgotten 
the young man and his transports ; for he stood 
with clasped hands and eyes raised to heaven, 
as if addressing his Maker in fervent prayer. 
At length his words began to be heard dis- 
tinctly : — 

“ Oh, Margaret ! Margaret ! rejoice on the 
bosom of God. My promise is fulfilled; — thy 
child will be happy!” 

Gustave and Lenora stood before him hand 
in hand; and, as he threw his arms around the 
young man, — 

“ May Heaven bless you for your love !” con- 
tinued he. “ Make my child happy. She is your 
wife !” 

“Gustave, Gustave, — my husband /” exclaimed 
Lenora, as they threw themselves into each other’s 


156 


THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 


arms, and the first kiss of love — the first conse- 
crated kiss — was exchanged on the breast of that 
happy father, who wept over and blessed his 
children. 


And now, gentle reader, I must inform you 
that I have had my own reasons for concealing 
the situation and even the true name of the 
chateau of De Ylierbeck. None of you will, 
therefore, ever know where Gustave and Lenora 
dwell. I know Monsieur and Madame Denecker 
intimately, and have taken many a walk around 
Grinselhof with two charming little children and 
their venerable grandfather. I have often beheld 
the beautiful picture of peace, love, and domestic 
happiness that is seen in that old house beneath 
the grim ancestral portraits or in the fresh air 
under the trees. I will not say who told me the 
story of this family. Let it suffice that I know 
all the persons who have played a part in it, and 
that I have often chatted with Farmer John and 
Dame Bess while they poured forth their gossip 
about “ The Poor Gentleman” and his trials. 


the end. 























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